Sonnett

When att your handes of love the sugred fruite
I dyd requeste in guerdon of my truth
Yow dyd alleadge to hynder such my Sute
good fame which dyd surpasse delights of youth
But as a man I pleasure dyd preferr
with those sweete Joyes which I in love doe fynde
Before those dreams that make us thinke wee err
and lyve in awe of woordes that are but wynde
For frankly speake and then sweet frende tell me
in theis great termes off fame what profe is founde
That doth delyght or with our sence agree
on olde wives tales, a fancye vaine yow grownde
For in conceite alone doth fame Consyste
But pleasure yow may taste off yf yow lyste.