Delia: Sonnet 8

THou poore hart sacrifiz'd vnto the fairest,
Hast sent the incens of thy sighes to heauen:
And still against her frownes fresh vowes repayrest,
And made thy passions with her beauty euen.
And you mine eyes, the agents of my hart,
Told the dumbe message of my hidden griefe:
And oft with carefull turnes, with silent Arte,
Did treat the cruell Fayre to yeeld reliefe.
And you my verse, the Aduocates of loue,
Haue followed hard the processe of my case:
And vrg'd that tytle which doth plainly proue,
My faith should win, if iustice might haue place.
Yet though I see, that nought we doe can moue her,
Tis not disdaine must make me cease to loue her.