Wittes Pilgrimage, Sonnet 59

YOur Fauors filling my torne Hart with Hope,
Hope, raising lustlesse Loue, and Loue, Desire,
Desire rests not but in, Deer you, his Scope;
Whose flames stil mount to you, his Spheare of Fire.
Then, if to my desire you will giue rest,
It must be in your staid Loues purer flames:
Then, with his Element, Desire inuest,
Sith his fire compound is, and him vnframes.
Feeling mounts not to Pleasures firmament,
But through this subtill Spheare of simple fire:
Nor Loue attaine the Heau'n of true content,
But by this sweet Repose of his Desire:
Then, if you loue me, as it seems you do,
Rest my Desire, and I will rest yours too.