Sonnet, 2.

THese sorrowing sighs, the smokes of mine annoy;
These teares, which heate of sacred fire distills:
These are the tributes that my faith doth pay,
And these my tyrants cruell minde fulfills.

I sacrifice my youth and blooming yeares
At hir proud feete, that yet respects no whit
My youth, vntimely withered with my teares
By winter woes, for spring of youth vnfit.

She thinkes, a looke may recompence my care;
And so with lookes prolongs my long lookt ease:
As short the blisse, so is the comfort rare;
Yet must that blisse my hungrie thoughts appease:
Thus she returnes my hopes to fruitlesse euer;
Once let her loue indeed, or eye me neuer.