Sonnet 61

LAte tyr'd with woe, euen ready for to pine
With rage of loue, I call my Loue vnkinde.
Shee in whose eyes, loues fyres vnfelt doe shine,
Sweetlie saide; I true loue in her shoulde finde.
I ioy, but straight thus watred was my wine:
That loue she did, but with a loue not blinde.
Which would not let me, whome she lou'd decline,
From Nobler course, fit for my birth and minde.
And therefore by her loues Authoritie;
Wilde me these Tempests of vaine loue to flee:
And Anchor fast my selfe on vertues shore.
Alas if this the onelie mettall be,
Of loue newe coyn'd to helpe my beggery:
Deere, loue me not, that you may loue me more.