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7. Sonet.

[Pale, sad Aurora leaue thy showres to raine]

Pale, sad Aurora leaue thy showres to raine,
Of perl-like cristall teares thou dayly sheds,
In tender bosomes of the flowry meads,
Wayling his death wh' at llious siege was slaine:
Oh let thy soule appeas'd! with this remaine.
That those thy teares pleads pitty by there sight,
And more, the great bright patterne of the light,
To quench his drought carrouses them againe,
Cease then to weepe, and leaue me still to mourne,
Complayning best becomes my mirthlesse state,
Wh'in quenchlesse flames of lucklesse loue does burne:
(Thy Memnons losse requires no more regrate)
And since my owne cannot procure but scorne,
Lend me thy mouing teares, sweet weeping morne.
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