Sonnet 8

LOue borne in Greece, of late fled from his natiue place,
Forst by a tedious proofe, that Turkish hardned harts
Were no fit markes, to pearce with his fine pointed darts:
And pleasd with our soft peace, staide here his fleeting race.
But finding these colde climes, too coldlie him imbrace,
Not vsde to frosen lippes, he straue to finde some part
Where with most ease and warmth, he might imploy his art.
At length himselfe he pearch'd in Stellas face,
Whose faire skinne, beamie eyes, like morning Sunne in snowe:
Deceiu'd the quaking boy, who thought from so pure light,
Effects of liuelie heate in nature needes must growe.
But she most faire, most colde; made him there take his flight
To my close hart; where while some fire brands he did lay,
He burnt vnwares his winges, and cannot fly away.