Sonnet 23

SOund hoarse sad Lute, true witnesse of my woe,
And strive no more to ease selfe chosen paine
With soule-enchanting sounds, your accents straine
Unto these teares incessantly which flow.
Sad Treeble weep, and you dull Basses show
Your Masters sorrow in a dolefull straine;
Let never joyfull Hand upon you go,
Nor Consort keep but when you do complaine.
Flie Phoebus Raies, abhor the irkesome Light,
Woods solitary shades for thee are best,
Or the black horrours of the blackest Night,
When all the World save Thou and I do rest:
Then sound sad Lute and beare a mourning part,
Thou Hell canst move, though not a Womans Heart.