Sonnet, 20.

IF Beautie bright be doubled with a frowne,
That Pitie cannot shine through to my blisse,
And Disdaines vapors are thus ouergrowen,
That my liues light to me quite darkened is.

VVhy trouble I the world then with my cries,
The aire with sighs, the earth below with teares,
Since I liue hatefull to those ruthfull eyes,
Vexing with my vntuned mone her daintie eares.

If I haue lou'd her dearer than my breath,
My breath, that cals the heauens to witnes it.
And still hold her most deare vntill my death:
And if that all this cannot mooue one whit;
Yet let hir say that shee hath done me wrong,
To vse me thus and know I lou'd so long.