Wittes Pilgrimage, Sonnet 78

THe Polipp Fishe sitts all the Winter longe
Stock-still, through Slouthe, and on him selfe doth feed.
So, through the cold of feare I do, in deede,
Whereby the Libertie of Loue I wronge.
But they do perishe, pittilesse, that weare
(Through slouthe) away, that might bee fatt, and Faire
By honest Labour; hie Promotios Staire:
So, do I perishe, pittilesse, through Feare.
Yet, can I not but feare your scorne, dread Dame,
If I should labour to disclose my Loue,
Sith your high fortunes myne are farre aboue,
This maks me, through my slouthe, to worke my blame:
But, lest I should my selfe so quite consume
To say I loue you, let my loue presume.