Wittes Pilgrimage, Sonnet 54

FAuours, are so farre sweete as there remaines
Place for requitall; but, if past that Place
They grow, to great Harts, but to bee great paines;
Which lothe such Loue, and grudge at so much grace.
This happily (deere Sweete) you thinke vpon
When your deere graces on me dropping bee:
Who make them fall with small effusion,
Lest they should cause the like effect in mee.
But, you (ô me!) do quite my Hart mistake:
For, you haue made it poore, and hardly liues:
Which loues you more, the more of It you make:
For, Fauours excesse hardly it reuiues:
Then ô, wise-Faire, my poore Hart fauour still,
Sith still it liues, by hope, that so you will.