With limitlesse renowne.
The Seventh Sonnet.
Whose senses in so evil comfort their stepdame Nature laies,
That ravishing delight in them most sweete tunes doth not raise,
Or if they doe delight therein, yet are so cloid with wit,
As with sententious lips to set a little vaine on it:
O let them heare these sacred tunes, & learne in wonders scholes,
To be (in things past bounds of wit) fooles if they be not fooles.
2 Who have so leaden eyes, as not to see sweete Beauties showe:
Or seeing, have so wooden wits as not that worth to knowe;