Wittes Pilgrimage, Sonnet 87

BEe not, ô be not careleslie vnkinde
To him (sower-Sweet) whose care is all for thee:
Looke in my Hart, through windows of my minde,
And nought but thine owne Image thou shalt see.
Sack not the Temple then, where thon art shrinde
A glorius Monumente of Excellence!
The Shrine's immortal, sith so is my Minde,
Yet maist thou it deface, by plaging Sence.
Thou plaugst my feeling, sith through thee I feele
The hatefulst plagues that Loues Fire can inflict:
My Hart (where thou dost dwell, with Hart of Steele;)
Sill flaming, burnes, yet thee it not afflicts:
But wert thou not lessesensible then Steele.
Thou coulst not choose but feele the paines I feele!