That brought mee so high to fall:
Soone with my death Ile please thee.
No no no no, my Deare let bee.
The fifth Sonnet.
While favour fed my hope, delight with hope was brought,
Thought waited on delight, and speach did follow thought,
Then drew my tongue and pen records unto thy glorie;
I thought all words were lost that were not spent of thee,
I thought each place was darke but where thy lights would be,