Sonnet 103

ENuious wits what hath beene mine offence,
That with such poisoned care my wits you marke,
That to each word, nay sigh of mine you harke,
As grudging me my sorrows eloquence?
Ah, is it not enough, that I am thence:
Thence, so farre thence, that scantly anie sparke
Of comfort dare come to this dungeon darke
VVhere rigorous exile lockes vp al my sense:
But if I by a happie window passe,
If I but Starres vpon mine Armour beare,
Sicke, thirstie, glad (though but of empty glasse)
Your morals note straight my hid meaning there,
From out my ribs a whirlewind proues that I
Doe Stella loue fooles, who doth it denie?