Sonnet XXXIX

Come Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot

of peace,

The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,

The indifferent judge between the high and low;

With shield of proof, shield me from out

the prease

Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw;

O make in me those civil wars to cease; I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,

A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light,

A rosy garland and a weary head:

And if these things, as being thine by right,

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in

me,

Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image

see.

Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance

Guided so well, that I obtained the prize, Both by the judgment of the English

eyes,

And of some sent by that sweet enemy, France;

Horsemen my skill in horsemanship ad

vance,

Townsfolks my strength; a daintier judge applies

His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise;

Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; Others, because of both sides I do take My blood from them who did excel in this,

Think Nature me a man of arms did make.

How far they shot awry! the true cause is,

Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face

Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.

Sonnet LXIV

No more, my dear, no more these counsels try;

O give my passions leave to run their

race;

Let Fortune lay on me her worst dis

grace;

Let folk o'ercharged with brain against me cry;

Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine

eye;

Let me no steps but of lost labour trace; Let all the earth with scorn recount my

case;

But do not will me from my love to fly! I do not envy Aristotle's wit,

Nor do aspire to Cæsar's bleeding fame; Nor ought do care though some above me sit;

Nor hope nor wish another course to frame,

But that which once may win thy cruel heart:

Thou art my Wit, and thou my Virtue

art.

Good brother Philip, I have borne thee

long;

I was content you should in favour creep, While craftily you seemed your cut to keep,

As though that soft fair hand did you great wrong:

I bare, with envy, yet I bare, your song, When in her neck you did love ditties

peep;

Nay, more fool I oft suffered you to sleep

In lilies' nest, where Love's self lies along. What, doth high place ambitious thoughts augment?

Is sauciness reward of courtesy?

Cannot such grace your silly self content, But you must needs with those lips billing be,

And through those lips drink nectar from that tongue?

Leave that, Sir Phip, lest off your neck be wrung!

Sonnet LXXXIV

Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be, And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,

Tempers her words to trampling horses' feet

More oft than to a chamber melody;

Now, blessed you, bear onward blessed

me

To her, where I my heart safe left shall meet;

My Muse and I must you of duty greet With thanks and wishes, wishing thankfully.

Be you still fair, honoured by public heed,

By no encroachment wronged, nor time forgot,

Nor blamed for blood, nor shamed for sinful deed;

And that you know I envy you no lot Of highest wish, I wish you so much bliss:

Hundreds of years you Stella's feet may

kiss.