Sonnet 47

SOules ioy, bend not those morning starres from me,
Where vertue is made strong by beauties might,
Where loue is chastnes, scorning youthes delight,
And humblenes is linckt with maiestie;
What euer may ensue, ah let me be
Copartner of the ritches of that sight:
Let not mine eyes be blinded from that light;
Oh looke, oh shine, ô let me die and see,
For though I oft my selfe of them bemone,
That through my hart their beamie darts be gone,
Whose curelesse woundes euen nowe most freshly bleede;
Yet since my deaths wound is already got,
Deere killer, spare not thy sweete cruell shot,
A kinde of grace it is to kill with speede.