Sonet 8

    Nothing but no and I, and I and no,
    How falls it out so strangely you reply? 
    I tell yee (Faire) Ile not be aunswered so,
    With this affirming no, denying I,
    I say I loue, you slightly aunswer I? 
    I say you loue, you pule me out a no;
    I say I die, you eccho me with I,
    Saue me I cry, you sigh me out a no: 
    Must woe and I, haue naught but no and I? 
    No, I am I, If I no more can haue,
    Aunswer no more, with silence make reply,
    And let me take my selfe what I doe craue;
      Let no and I, with I and you be so,
      Then aunswer no, and I, and I, and no.

Sonet 9

    Loue once would daunce within my Mistres eye,
    And wanting musique fitting for the place,
    Swore that I should the Instrument supply,
    And sodainly presents me with her face: 
    Straightwayes my pulse playes liuely in my vaines,
    My panting breath doth keepe a meaner time,
    My quau’ring artiers be the Tenours Straynes,
    My trembling sinewes serue the Counterchime,
    My hollow sighs the deepest base doe beare,
    True diapazon in distincted sound: 
    My panting hart the treble makes the ayre,
    And descants finely on the musiques ground;
      Thus like a Lute or Violl did I lye,
      Whilst the proud slaue daunc’d galliards in her eye.

Sonet 10

    Loue in an humor played the prodigall,
    And bids my sences to a solemne feast,
    Yet more to grace the company withall,
    Inuites my heart to be the chiefest guest;
    No other drinke would serue this gluttons turne,
    But precious teares distilling from mine eyne,
    Which with my sighs this Epicure doth burne,
    Quaffing carouses in this costly wine,
    Where, in his cups or’come with foule excesse,
    Begins to play a swaggering Ruffins part,
    And at the banquet, in his drunkennes,
    Slew my deare friend, his kind and truest hart;
      A gentle warning, friends, thus may you see
      What ’tis to keepe a drunkard company.

Sonet 11

To the Moone

    Phaebe looke downe, and here behold in mee,
    The elements within thy sphere inclosed,
    How kindly Nature plac’d them vnder thee,
    And in my world, see how they are disposed;
    My hope is earth, the lowest, cold and dry,
    The grosser mother of deepe melancholie,
    Water my teares, coold with humidity,
    Wan, flegmatick, inclind by nature wholie;
    My sighs, the ayre, hote, moyst, ascending hier,
    Subtile of sanguine, dy’de in my harts dolor,
    My thoughts, they be the element of fire,
    Hote, dry, and piercing, still inclind to choller,
      Thine eye the Orbe vnto all these, from whence,
      Proceeds th’ effects of powerfull influence.