Sonnet, 2.

COme Death the Anchor hold of al my thoughts,
My last resort whereto my Soule appealeth:
For all too long on earth my fancie dotes,
Whiles dearest blood my fierie passions sealeth.

That hart is now the prospectiue of horror,
That honoured hath the cruelst Faire that liueth,
The cruelst Faire, that knowes I languish for her.
And neuer mercie to my merite giueth.

This is the Laurell and her tryumphes prise.
To tread mee downe with foote of her disgrace,
Whilst I did build my fortune in her eyes,
And laid my soules rest on so faire a face:
That rest I lost, my Loue, my life and all,
Thus high attempts to lowe disgrace do fall.