Sonnet 6.

THese amber locks are those same nets (my Deare)
Wherewith my liberty thou didst surprise,
Loue was the flame that fierd me so neare,
The darts transpersing were these Christal eies.

Strong is the net, and feruent is the flame.
Deepe is the stroke, my sighs can well report,
Yet doe I loue, adore and praise the same,
That holds, that burnes, that wounds me in that sort.

I list not seeke to breake, to quench, to heale,
This bond, this flame, this wound that festereth so,
By knife, by liquor, or by salue to deale;
So much I please to perish in my woe:
Yet, least long trauels be aboue my strength;
Good Ladie, lose, quench, heal me now at length.