Sonnett

Mistres, thinke nott it is alone the flattringe hue
or fadinge white and reade that makes the wise to love
Itt is those gifts withall, that doo abounde in yow
that porte that grace, that worthy mynd, lent from above
Thoughe wanton Paris did his censure so bestowe
and for her pleasinge cheare to Venus gave the price
Itt was because his youth, did want the skill to knowe
what Pallas did desarve by judgment of the wyse
Butt yff his dome were nowe off them, to geve againe
and she but present there, whose praise my penn doth sounde
Those heavenly Queenes I feare he woolde dysdayne
seinge in her so ryfe, both of their gyfts abounde
Then yff her vertues force, from them can wynn the fame
No mervaile thoughe my harte dysdayne, to thinke on other name.