Sonnet. VII.

BVt beeing care, thou flyest mee as ill fortune.
Care the consuming canker of the mind,
the discord that disorders sweet harts tune,
th'abortiue bastard of a coward mind:
The light-foole lackie that runnes post by death,
bearing the Letters which containe our end,
the busie aduocate that sells his breath,
denouncing worst to him is most his friend.
O Deere, this care no intrest holdes in mee,
but holy care, the Gardiant of thy faire,
thine honors champion, and thy vertues fee,
the zeale which thee from barbarus times shall beare.
This care am I, this care my life hath taken,
Deere to my soule, then leaue me not forsaken.