Sonnet 26

TRust not sweet soule those curled waves of Gold
With gentle Tides that on your Temples flow,
Nor Temples spred with Flakes of Virgin snow,
Nor snow of Cheeks with Tyrian graine enrold.
Trust not those shining Lights which wrought my woe,
When first I did their azure Raies behold,
Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do show
Than of the Thracian Harper have been told:
Look to this dying Lilly, fading Rose,
Darke Hyacinthe, of late whose blushing Beames
Made all the neighbouring herbs and grasse rejoyce,
And thinke how little is 'twixt Lifes extreames;
The cruell Tyrant that did kill those Flow'rs
Shall once, aye me, not spare that Spring of yours.