Sonnet 18.

LOoke in my griefes, & blame me not to mourne,
From thought to thought that lead a life so bad:
Fortunes Orphan, hers and the worlds scorne,
VVhose clowded brow doth make my daies so bad.

Long are their nights, whose cares doo neuer sleepe;
Lothsome their dayes, whom neuer sunne yet ioyed;
A pleasing griefe impressed hath so deepe,
That thus I liue both day and night annoyed.

Yet since the sweetest roote doth yeeld thus much,
Her praise from my complaint I must not part:
I loue the effect, because the cause is such;
I praise hir face, and blame hir flintie hart:
VVhilst that we make the world admire at vs,
Her for disdaine, and me for louing thus.