Sonnet. 48 (Sonnet 48)

CUpid, dumbe I doll, peeuish faint of Loue,
No more shalt thou nor saint nor idoll be,
No god art thou, Loues goddesse she doth proue,
Of all thine honour she hath robbed thee:
Thy bow olde broke, is peecde with halfe desire,
Her bow is beautie with ten thousand strings,
And euery one of purest golden wire;
The least, of force to conquer hoasts of Kings:
Thy shafts be spent, and she (to war appoynted)
Hides in those Cristall quiuers of her eyes,
More arrowes with hart-piercing mettle pointed,
Then there be starres at mid-night in the skies:
With these she steales mens harts for her releefe,
Yet happie he that's robd of such a theefe.