Sonnet 107

When sorrow (vsing my owne Siers might)
Melts downe his lead into my boyling brest,
Through that darke Furnace of my heart opprest,
There shines a ioy from thee my onely light:
But soone as thought of thee breeds my delight,
And my young soule once flutters to hir nest,
Most dead dispaire my daily vnbidden guest
Clips strait my wings, strait wraps me in his night,
And makes me then bow downe my head and say,
Ah what doth Phoebus gold that wretch auaile
VVhom Iron darts doth keepe from vse of daie,
So strangely (alas) thy works on me preuaile,
That in my woes for thee, thou art my ioy;
And in my ioyes for thee, my onel'anoy.