Sonnet, 17.

WHilst by hir eies pursude, my poore hart flue it
Into the sacred bosome of my dearest,
Shee there in that sweete Sanctuarie slew it,
VVhen it had hop'd his safetie to be nearest.

My faith of priuiledge could no whit protect it,
That was with bloud, and three yeres witnes signed,
VVhereby she had no cause once to suspect it:
For well she saw my loue, and how I pined.

Yet no hopes letter would her brow reueale mee,
No comforts hue, which falling spirits erecteth;
VVhat bootes to lawes of succour to appeale mee?
Ladies and tyrants neuer lawes respecteth.
Then there I die, where I had hope to liuen;
And by her hand that better might haue giuen.