Sonnet. 49 (Sonnet 49)

THou leaden braine which censur'st what I write
And saist my lines be dull, and do not moue.
I maruaile not thou feel'st not my delight,
Which neuer feltst my fierie tuch of loue:
But thou whose pen hath like a Packe-horse seru'd,
Whose stomacke vnto gaule hath turnd thy food,
Whose senses like poore prisners hunger-staru'd.
Whose greefe hath parch'd thy body, dride thy blood;
Thou which hast scorned life, and hated death,
And in a moment mad, sober, glad and sorie,
Thou which hast bann'd thy thoughts, and curst thy birth
With thousand plagues more then in purgatory,
Thou thus whose spirit Loue in his fire refines,
Come thou and reade, admire and plawd my lines.