Wittes Pilgrimage, Sonnet 47

THey write, and speak wel, that can wel expresse,
(In either kind) what Fancy doth suggest:
But I the more I fancy, speake the lesse:
So, in my Hart, my hartlesse Tongue doth rest.
But, ô deer Hart, sith thou art Lord of life,
On paine of death, command my Pen to make
Ynk of thy bloud, to Chronicle the strife
Which thou endurest for thy true loues sake.
And, thou my Fancy so thy selfe bestir
(Who stir'st about the Center of my Loue)
That future Times, in loue, may pitty hir,
Sith graces such, vnpittiful should proue:
And, make my Pen (in lasting Colours) paint
The Picture of my Loue, and sullen Saint.