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- # S O N N E T S.
Thy loue is bitter then high birth to me,
Richer then wealth, prouder then garments cost,
Of more delight then Hawkes or Horses beer
And hauling thee, of all men’s pride I boast,
Wretched in this alone, that thou maist take,
All this away, and me most wretched make.
92
By to doe thy worst to steale thy selfe away,
For yearme of life thou art assured mine,
And life no longer then thy loue will stay,
For it depends upon that loue of thine,
Then need I not to seare the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end,
I see, a better state to me belongs
Then that, which on thy humor doth depend.
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant minde,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie,
Oh what a happy title do I finde,
Happy to haue thy loue, happy to die!
But whats so blessed faire that seares no blot,
Thou maist be false, and yet I know it not.
93
So shall I line, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband so loues face,
May still seeme loue to me, though alter’d new:
Thy lookes with me, thy heart in other place,
For their can line no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change,
In manies lookes, the false hearts history
Is writ in moods and sronches and wrinkles strange.
But heaven in thy creation did decree,
That in thy face sweet loue should euer dwell,
What ere thy thoughts, or thy hearts workings be,
Thy lookes should nothing thence; but sweetnesse tell,
How like Eaves apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy sweet vertue answers not thy show.
94
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