Sonnet 17

THat I so slenderly set forth my Mind,
Writing I wot not what in ragged Rimes,
Orecharg'd with brasse in these so golden Times
When other… towre so high, am left behind:
I crave not Phoebus leave his sacred Cell
To bind my Brows with fresh Aonian Baies;
But leave't to those who tuning Sweetest Laies
By Tempe sit, or Aganippes Well;
Nor yet to Venus Tree do I aspire,
Sith She for whom I might affect that praise,
My best attempts with cruell words gainsaies,
And I seek not that others me admire.
Of weeping Myrrhe the Crowne is which I crave,
With a sad Cypresse to adorne my Grave.