Sonnet 21

YOur words my freends me causelesly doe blame,
My young minde marde whō Loue doth menace so:
That my owne writings like bad seruants shew
My wits, quick in vaine thoughts, in vertue lame;
That Plato I haue reade for nought, but if he tame
Such coltish yeeres; that to my birth I owe
Nobler desires: least els that to my foe
Great expectation were a trayne of shame.
For since mad Mars great promise made to me,
If now the May or my yeeres much decline,
What can be hop'd my haruest time will be,
Well said, your wit in vertues golden myne
Digs deepe with learnings spade: now tell me this,
Hath this world ought so faire as Stella is?