You cannot loue my pretty hart, and why? There was a time, you told me that you would, But now againe you will the same deny, If it might please you, would to God you could; What will you hate? nay, that you will not neither, Nor loue, nor hate, how then? what will you do, What will you keepe a meane then betwixt eyther? Or will you loue me, and yet hate me to? Yet serues not this, what next, what other shift? You will, and will not, what a coyle is heere, I see your craft, now I perceaue your drift, And all this while, I was mistaken there. Your loue and hate is this, I now doe proue you, You loue in hate, by hate to make me loue you. Sonet 22 An euill spirit your beauty haunts me still, Where-with (alas) I haue been long possest, Which ceaseth not to tempt me vnto ill, Nor giues me once but one pore minutes rest. In me it speakes, whether I sleepe or wake, And when by meanes to driue it out I try, With greater torments then it me doth take, And tortures me in most extreamity. Before my face, it layes all my dispaires, And hasts me on vnto a suddaine death; Now tempting me, to drown my selfe in teares, And then in sighing to giue vp my breath: Thus am I still prouok'd to euery euill, By this good wicked spirit, sweet Angel deuill. Sonet 23 _To the Spheares_ Thou which do'st guide this little world of loue, Thy planets mansions heere thou mayst behold, My brow the spheare where _Saturne_ still doth moue, Wrinkled with cares: and withered, dry, and cold; Mine eyes the Orbe where _Iupiter_ doth trace, Which gently smile because they looke on thee, _Mars_ in my swarty visage takes his place, Made leane with loue, where furious conflicts bee. _Sol_ in my breast with his hote scorching flame, And in my hart alone doth _Venus_ raigne: _Mercury_ my hands the Organs of thy fame, And _Luna_ glides in my fantastick braine; The starry heauen thy prayse by me exprest, Thou the first moouer, guiding all the rest. Sonet 24 Love banish'd heauen, in earth was held in scorne, Wandring abroad in neede and beggery, And wanting friends though of a Goddesse borne, Yet crau'd the almes of such as passed by. I like a man, deuout and charitable; Clothed the naked, lodg'd this wandring guest, With sighs and teares still furnishing his table, With what might make the miserable blest; But this vngratefull for my good desart, Entic'd my thoughts against me to conspire, Who gaue consent to steale away my hart, And set my breast his lodging on a fire: Well, well, my friends, when beggers grow thus bold, No meruaile then though charity grow cold. Sonet 25