Sonnet, 22.

IF this be Loue to drawe a wearie breath,
To paint on flods till the shore crie to the aire,
With prone aspect still treading on the earth,
Sad horror, pale griefe, prostrate dispaire:

If this be Loue, to warre against my soule,
Rise vp to waile, lie downe to sigh, to grieue me,
With ceaseles toyle Cares restlesse stones to roule,
Still to complaine and mone, whilst none relieue me:

If this be Loue, to languish in such care,
Loathing the light, the world, my selfe, and all.
VVith interrupted sleepes fresh griefes repaire,
And breath out horror in perplexed thrall:
If this be Loue, to liue a liuing death;
Loe then loue I, and draw this wearie breath.