Sonnet 18

MY Teares may well Numidian Lions tame,
And Pity breed into the hardest heart
That ever Pyrrha did to Maid impart,
When She them first of blushing Rocks did frame.
Ah Eyes which only serve to waile my smart,
How long will you my inward Woes proclaime,
May 't not suffice you beare a weeping Part
All Night, at day but you must do the same?
Cease idle Sighs to spend your Stormes in vaine,
And these sweet silent thickets to molest,
Containe you in the Prison of my Brest,
You do not ease but aggravate my Paine;
Or if burst forth you must, that Tempest move
In sight of her whom I so dearely love.