Sonnet. I.

Aye mee poore wretch, my prayer is turnd to sinne,
I say I loue, my Mistres saies tis lust:
thus most wee loose, where most wee seeke to win,
wit will make wicked what is nere so iust.
And yet I can supplant her false surmise.
Lust is a fire, that for an howre or twaine
gyueth a scorching blaze, and then he dies.
Loue, a continuall fornace doth maintaine.
A fornace, well this a fornace may be call'd,
for it burnes inward, yeelds a smothering flame,
sighes which like boyld leads smoking vapor scald.
I sigh a pace at eccho of sighes name.
Long haue I seru'd, no short blaze is my loue,
Hid ioyes there are that maydes scorne till they proue.