Sonnet. VIII.

Deere to my soule, then leaue me not forsaken,
flie not, my hart within thy bosome sleepeth:
euen from my selfe and sense I haue betaken
mee vnto thee, for whom my spirit weepeth.
And on the shoare of that salt tearie sea,
couch'd in a bed of vnseene seeming pleasure,
where, in imaginarie thoughts thy faire selfe lay,
but being wakt, robd of my liues best treasure,
I call the heauens, ayre, earth, & seas, to heare
my loue, my trueth, and black disdaind estate:
beating the rocks with bellowings of dispaire,
which stil with plaints my words reuerbarate.
Sighing, alas, what shall become of me?
Whilst Eccho cryes, what shal become of me.