A Sonnet.
[In this cleere Sunne with golden beames that shineth]
In
this cleere Sunne with golden beames that shineth,
In this most high diuine and rare perfection,
In this sweete soule and figure, that refineth
Our age with ioyes, with treasures and affection.
O blinding light and face each harts subiection,
Where beauties store to pities want inclineth:
Sweete words, but hard condition of reiection;
Sweete lookes, yet sight that many sorrowes shrineth.
For these sweete Mistresse, I am thus enwrapped,
For these I feare to see mine owne desire,
And passe the time in thinking of thy treasures.
A case most strange, effects that neuer happed,
That seeing thee, I see my greatest pleasures,
And harmes, when that to see thee I require.
