 | Phillis
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Sonnet I.
Oh pleasing thoughts, apprentises of loue,
Fore-runners of desire, sweet Methridates
The poison of my sorrowes to remoue,
With whom my hopes and fearefull oft debates.
Inritch your selues and me by your selfe riches,
(Which are the thoughts you spēd on heauē bred beauty,)
Rowse you my muse beyond our Poets pitches,
And working wonders yet say all is duty.
Vse you no Eglets eyes, nor Phenix feathers,
To tower the heauē from whence heauens wonder sallies:
For why your sonne singes sweetly to hir wethers:
Making a springe of winter in the vallies.
Show to the world tho poore and scant my skill is,
How sweet thoughts bee, that are but thought on Phillis.
| Phillis
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