Sonnet 19.

HAppie in sleepe, waking content to languish,
Imbracing cloudes by night, in day time mourne:
All things I loth saue hir and mine owne anguish,
Pleasd in my heart mooued to liue forlorne.

Nought doe I craue but loue, death, or my Ladie,
Horce with crying mercie, (mercie yet my merit)
So manie vowes and praiers euer made I,
That now at length to yeeld meere pittie were it.

Yet since the Hidra of my cares renewing,
Reuiues still sorrowes of hir fresh disdaining,
Still must I goe the Summer winds pursuing,
And nothing but hir loue and my harts paining.
Weep howrs, grieue daies, sigh months, & still mourn yearly,
Thus must I doe because I loue hir dearelie: