Me thinks I see some crooked Mimick ieere
    And taxe my Muse with this fantastick grace,
    Turning my papers, asks what haue we heere? 
    Making withall, some filthy anticke face;
    I feare no censure, nor what thou canst say,
    Nor shall my spirit one iote of vigor lose,
    Think’st thou my wit shall keepe the pack-horse way,
    That euery dudgen low inuention goes? 
    Since Sonnets thus in bundles are imprest,
    And euery drudge doth dull our satiate eare,
    Think’st thou my loue, shall in those rags be drest
    That euery dowdie, euery trull doth weare? 
      Vnto my pitch no common iudgement flies,
      I scorne all earthlie dung-bred scarabies.

Sonet 34

To Admiration

    Maruaile not Loue, though I thy power admire,
    Rauish’d a world beyond the farthest thought,
    That knowing more then euer hath beene taught,
    That I am onely staru’d in my desire;
    Maruaile not Loue, though I thy power admire,
    Ayming at things exceeding all perfection,
    To wisedoms selfe, to minister direction,
    That I am onely staru’d in my desire;
    Maruaile not Loue, though I thy power admire,
    Though my conceite I farther seeme to bend,
    Then possibly inuention can extend,
    And yet am onely staru’d in my desire;
      If thou wilt wonder, heers the wonder loue,
      That this to mee doth yet no wonder proue.

Sonet 43

Whilst thus my pen striues to eternize thee, Age rules my lines with wrincles in my face, Where in the Map of all my misery, Is modeld out the world of my disgrace, Whilst in despight of tyrannizing times, Medea like I make thee young againe, Proudly thou scorn’st my world-outwearing rimes, And murther’st vertue with thy coy disdaine; And though in youth, my youth vntimely perrish, To keepe thee from obliuion and the graue, Ensuing ages yet my rimes shall cherrish, Where I entomb’d, my better part shall saue;
  And though this earthly body fade and die
My name shall mount vpon eternitie.

Sonet 44

    Muses which sadly sit about my chayre,
    Drownd in the teares extorted by my lines,
    With heauy sighs whilst thus I breake the ayre,
    Paynting my passions in these sad dissignes,
    Since she disdaines to blesse my happy verse,
    The strong built Trophies to her liuing fame,
    Euer hence-forth my bosome be your hearse,
    Wherein the world shal now entombe her name,
    Enclose my musick you poor sencelesse walls,
    Sith she is deafe and will not heare my mones,
    Soften your selues with euery teare that falls,
    Whilst I like Orpheus sing to trees and stones: 
      Which with my plaints seeme yet with pitty moued,
      Kinder then she who I so long haue loued.