Sonnet 14

ALas, haue I not paine enough my friend,
Vppon whose breast, a fiercer gripe doth tyre,
Than did on him, who first stole downe the fyre;
While Loue on me, doth all his quiuer spend,
But with your rubarbe wordes you must contend,
To greeue me worse in saying, that desier
Doth plunge my well form'd soule, euen in the mier
Of sinfull thoughtes, which doe in ruine ende.
If that be sinne which doth the manners frame,
Well stayed with trueth, in worde and faith of deede,
Readie of wit, and fearing nought but shame;
If it be sin which in sixt hart dooth breede,
A loathing of all loost true chastitie;
Then loue is sin, and let me sinfull bee.