Sonnet: Like a decrepit wretch, deform'd and lame

Like a decrepit wretch, deform'd and lame
My verse approaches to my dearest Dame
Whose dire disdaine, makes my laments her game,
Whose scornfull eies addes fuell to my flame.
But whether shee, or I, are most too blame
I for attempting to exalt her fame
With fruitlesse Sonnets; which my wit did frame:
Or shee whose peircing lookes my heart ore' came.
Her feature can both men and monsters tame
The gods, and fiends, adore and dread her name,
Whose matchlesse forme doth Citherea shame,
Whose cruell heart remaineth still the same.
And in a word, I striue against the streame
My state' is to low, and hers is too supreame.

Then since so scornefull is her high disdaine.
Since all my loue is but bestow'd in vaine,
Curbe fancie then, with true discretions Reine,
Let reason cure my tor-tormenting paine.
Suppose I should at last, my suit attaine,
And then sit downe and count my losing gaine:
My haruest would be tares in sheed of graine.
Then ile no longer vexe my vexed braine
To seeke her loue, who ioyes when I complaine:
No longer I, loues vassell will remaine,
Ile be no more of Cupids witlesse traine,
Whose partiall blindnesse hath so many slaine.
Proud Dame, whose breast my loue didst earst refraine
Despight loues lawes Ile be no more thy swaine.
Thus like a man, whose answere erest him,
I found him mad with loue, and so I left him.