SONNET XXII.
O fairest Fair, to thee I make my plaint, my plaint, To thee from whom my cause of grief doth spring: doth spring: Attentive be unto the groans, sweet Saint! sweet Saint! Which unto thee in doleful tunes I sing. I sing. My mournful Muse doth always speak of thee. of thee. My love is pure, O do not it disdain! disdain! With bitter sorrow still oppress not me; not me; But mildly look upon me which complain. which complain. Kill not my true-affecting thoughts; but give but give Such precious balm of comfort to my heart, my heart, That casting off despair, in hope to live, hope to live, I may find help at length to ease my smart. to ease my smart. So shall you add such courage to my love, my love, That fortune false, my faith shall not remove. shall not remove.
SONNET XXIII.
THe Phœnix fair which rich Arabia breeds, When wasting time expires her tragedy; No more on Phœbus' radiant rayes she feeds: But heapeth up great store of spicery; And on a lofty tow'ring cedar tree, With heavenly substance, she herself consumes. From whence she young again appears to be, Out of the cinders of her peerless plumes. So I, which long have frièd in love's flame, The fire, not made of spice, but sighs and tears, Revive again, in hope Disdain to shame, And put to flight the author of my fears. Her eyes revive decaying life in me; Though they augmentors of my thraldom be.