Sonnet 27

IN Minds pure Glasse when I my selfe behold,
And lively see how my best daies are spent,
What clouds of care above my head are rold,
What comming ill, which I cannot prevent:
My course begun I wearied do repent,
And would embrace what Reason oft hath told,
But scarce thus thinke I, when Love hath controld
All the best reasons Reason could invent.
Though sure I know my labours end is griefe,
The more I strive that I the more shall pine,
That only death shall be my last reliefe:
Yet when I thinke upon that face divine,
Like one with Arrow shot, in laughters place,
Maugre my Heart, I joy in my disgrace.