Sonnet

Your selfe the Sonne, and I the meltinge froste
My selfe the flaxe, and yow the kindlinge fyere
Your selfe the maze wherein my selfe is loste
I your disdaine, yet yow my harts desyre
Your love the Porte, wherto my fancyes sayle
My hope the shyppe whose helme your faire hand guides
Your grace the wynde, that must my course avayle
My faith the fludd your frownes the ebbing tyds
Your selfe the Springe, and I the leaveles tree
My selfe the Byrde, the closed cage your brest
Yow are the flowre, and I the toylinge Bee
My thoughts in yow though yours elswhere do rest
Yow are the brooke, and I the Deare Imboste
My heaven is yow, yet you torment my Goste.