Sonnet XXIIII: When as my love, lay sicklie in

When as my love, lay sicklie in her bedde,
Pale death did poste, in hope to have a praie,
But she so spotlesse made him, that he fledde,
Vnmeet to die (he cry'd) and could not staie.
Backe he retyr'd, and thus the heavens he told,
All thinges that are, are subject unto me,
Both townes, and men, and what the world doth hold,
But let faire Licia still immortall be.
The heauens did graunt: a goddesse she was made,
Immortall, faire, unfit to suffer chaung,
So now she lives, and never more shall fade,
In earth a goddesse, what can be more strange?
Then will I hope, a goddesse and so neare,
She cannot chuse my sighes, and praiers but heare.