Sonnet 68

OH ioy, too high for my Loue still to showe,
Oh blisse, fit for a nobler seat than mee,
Enuie put out thine eyes, least thou doe see
What Ouans of delight, in me doth flowe.
My friend that oft saw'st through all maskes, my woe,
Come, come, and let me poure my selfe in thee:
Gone is the winter of my miserie.
My Spring appeares, loe see what heere doth growe,
For Stella hath with wordes (where faith doth shine)
Of her high hart giuen me the Monarchie:
And Io, I may say that she is mine.
And though she giue but this condicionally,
This Realme of blisse, while vertues course I take;
No Kings be Crownd, but they some couenant make.