Wittes Pilgrimage, Sonnet 93

LOoke from the Turret of thy high disdaine
(Wherein I see thee, though thou seeth me not)
On mee (fell Faire.) flat lyeng on the Plaine
Of Lowlinesse, like the least little Mote!
Yet if thy heaunly faces Sunnes do shine
(In grace,) on my great Smallnesse I, poore I,
Shall, shining, mount, as if I were Diuine,
Like Motes in Sunne, who, shyning, mount thereby.
But if thou Cloude thy faces Heau'n with ought
That may those Sunne-beames lett to shine on mee,
Ile steepe my selfe in Teares till I be nought,
That I thus brought to nought by cruell Thee,
May charge thee with my fall, when I shall rise
To meet thee, to haue iustice, in the Skyes.