SONNET XIII.
My Cynthia hath the waters of mine eyes,
The ready handmaids on her Grace attending,
That never fall to ebb, nor ever die;
For to their flow she never grants an ending.
The Ocean never doth attend more duly
Upon his sovereign, the night wand'ring Queen;
Nor ever hath his impost paid more truly,
Than mine, to my soul's Queen hath ever been.
Yet her hard rock, firm fixt for aye removing,
No comfort to my cares she ever giveth:
Yet had I rather languish in her loving,
Than to embrace the fairest she that liveth.
I fear to find such pleasure in my reigning;
As now I taste in compass of complaining.
SONNET XIV.
If a true heart and faith unfeigned;
If a sweet languish with a chaste desire;
If hunger-starven thoughts so long retained,
Fed but with smoke, and cherished but with fire;
And if a brow with CARE'S characters painted;
Bewray my love, with broken words half spoken,
To her which sits in my thoughts' temple, sainted;
And lay to view my vulture-gnawen heart open:
If I have wept the day and sighed the night,
While thrice the sun approached his northern bound;
If such a faith hath ever wrought aright,
And well deserved, and yet no favour found.
Let this suffice; the whole world it may see,
The fault is hers, though mine the most hurt be.
