Sonnet 50

FAme, who with golden wings abroad doth range
Where Phoebus leaves the Night or brings the Day,
Fame, in one place who restlesse dost not stay
Till thou hast flown from Atlas unto Gange;
Fame, Enemy to Time, that still doth change,
And in his changing Course would make decay
What here below he findeth in his way,
Even making Vertue to her selfe look strange:
Daughter of Heaven; Now all thy Trumpets sound,
Raise up thy Head unto the highest Skie,
With wonder blaze the gifts in her are found,
And when she from this mortall Globe shall flie,
In thy wide Mouth keep long, keep long her Name;
So thou by her, she by thee live shall Fame.