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 SONNET XVII.

Whilst by her eyes pursued, my poor heart flew it Into the sacred bosom of my Dearest; She there, in that sweet sanctuary, slew it, When it had hoped his safety to be nearest.

My faith of privilege could no whit protect it; That was with blood, and three years' witness signed: Whereby she had no cause once to suspect it, For well she saw my love, and how I pined.

Yet no hope's letter would her brow reveal me, No comfort's hue which falling spirits erecteth; What boots to laws of succour to appeal me? Ladies and tyrants never laws respecteth. Then there I die, where I had hope to liven; And by her hand that better might have given.

SONNET XVIII.

Look in my griefs! and blame me not to mourn, From thought to thought that lead a life so bad: FORTUNE'S orphan! Her's and the world's scorn Whose clouded brow doth make my days so bad.

Long are their nights, whose cares do never sleep; Loathsome their days, whom never sun yet joyed; A pleasing grief impressed hath so deep, That thus I live both day and night annoyed.

Yet since the sweetest root doth yield thus much, Her praise from my complaint I must not part: I love the effect, because the cause is such; I praise her face, and blame her flinty heart. Whilst that we make the world admire at us; Her for disdain, and me for loving thus.