O LOVE, leave off with sorrows to torment me! Let my heart's grief and pining pain content thee! The breach is made; I give thee leave to enter! Thee to resist, great god, I dare not venture! Restless desire doth aggravate my anguish; Careful conceits do fill my soul with languish: Be not too cruel, in thy conquest gained! Thy deadly shafts have victory obtained! Batter no more my Fort with fierce affection; But shield me, captive, under thy protection! [_Two lines wanting._] I yield to thee, O Love, thou art the stronger! Raise then thy siege, and trouble me no longer! SONNET XXVIII. WHAT cruel star, or fate, had dominion When I was born? that thus my love is crossed. Or from what planet had I derivation? That thus my life in seas of woe is crossed. Doth any live that ever hath such hap, That all their actions are of none effect? Whom Fortune never dandled in her lap; But, as an abject, still doth me reject. Ah, fickle Dame! and yet thou constant art My daily grief and anguish to increase! And to augment the troubles of my heart; Thou, of these bonds will never me release! So that thy darlings, me to be may know, The true Idea of all Worldly Woe. SONNET XXIX. SOME in their hearts, their Mistress's colours bear; Some hath her gloves; some other hath her garters; Some in a bracelet wear her golden hair; And some with kisses seal their loving charters: But I, which never favour reapèd yet, Nor had one pleasant look from her fair brow; Content myself in silent shade to sit, In hope at length my cares to overplow. Meanwhile mine eyes shall feed on her fair face! My sighs shall tell to her my sad designs! My painful pen shall ever sue for grace! To help my heart, which languishing now pines. And I will triumph still amidst my woe, Till mercy shall my sorrows overflow. SONNET XXX. THE raging sea, within his limits lies; And with an ebb, his flowing doth discharge: The rivers, when beyond their bounds they rise, Themselves do empty in the ocean large: But my love's sea, which never limit keepeth; Which never ebbs, but always ever floweth, In liquid salt unto my CHLORIS weepeth; Yet frustrate are the tears which he bestoweth. This sea, which first was but a little spring, Is now so great, and far beyond all reason, That it a deluge to my thoughts doth bring; Which overwhelmèd hath my joying season. So hard and dry is my Saint's cruel mind; These waves no way in her to sink can find. SONNET XXXI.