With such bad mixture of my night and daie,
That living thus in blackest Winter night,
I feele the flames of hottest Sommers daie.
Stella, thinke not that I by verse seeke fame,
Who seeke, who hope, who love, who like, but thee:
Thine eyes my pride, thy lips my historie,
If thou praise not, all other praise is shame.
Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame
A nest for my yong praise in Lawrell tree,
In trueth I sweare, I wish not there should be