Page:Elizabethan sonnet-cycles.djvu/33



all the creatures in this spacious round

Of the birds' kind, the phœnix is alone,

Which best by you of living things is known;

None like to that, none like to you is found!

Your beauty is the hot and splend'rous sun;

The precious spices be your chaste desire,

Which being kindled by that heavenly fire,

Your life, so like the phœnix's begun.

Yourself thus burnèd in that sacred flame,

With so rare sweetness all the heavens perfuming;

Again increasing as you are consuming,

Only by dying born the very same.

And winged by fame you to the stars ascend;

So you of time shall live beyond the end.