Sonnet 55

SWeet Soule, which in the Aprill of thy yeares,
For to enrich the Heaven mad'st poore this Round,
And now with flaming Rayes of Glory crown'd
Most blest abides above the Spheare of Spheares;
If Heavenly Laws alas have not thee bound
From looking to this Globe that all up-beares,
If ruth and pity there-above be found,
O daigne to lend a look unto these Teares.
Do not disdaine (deare Ghost) this sacrifice,
And though I raise not pillars to thy Praise,
My off'rings take, let this for me suffice,
My Heart a living Pyramide I'll raise:
And whilst Kings Tombs with Laurells flourish green,
Thine shall with Mirtles and these flow'rs be seen.