Sonnet 20

FLy, flye my friendes, I haue my deathes wound, flye;
See there that boy, that murthering boy I say,
Who like a thiefe hid in a bush doth lye,
Tyll blooddy bullet get him wrongfull pray.
So, tyrant he no fitter place could spy,
Nor so farre leuell in so secrete stay:
As that sweete blacke which walles thy heauenly eye,
There he himselfe with his shot close doth laye.
Poore passenger, passe now thereby I did,
And staid to see the prospect of the place,
While that black hue from me the bad guest hid,
But straight I saw motions of lightnings grace,
And there discried the glisterings of his dart:
But ere I could flie thence, it pearst my hart.