Sonnet 94

YEt sighes, deare sighes, indeede true friends you are,
That do not leaue your best friend at the wurst;
But as you with my brest I oft haue nurst:
So gratefull now you wait vpon my care.
Faint coward Ioye, no longer tarrie dare,
Seeing hope did yeeld when this woe strake him first,
Delight exclaims is for my fault curst,
Although my mate in Armes himselfe he sware,
Nay Sorrow in as great a rage as hee,
Kills his owne children Teares, finding that they
By Loue were made apt to consort with mee,
Onely true Sighes, you do not go away:
Thank may you haue for such a thankfull part:
Thank worthiest yet, when you shall breake my heart.