Sonet 45

    Thou leaden braine, which censur’st what I write,
    And say’st my lines be dull and doe not moue,
    I meruaile not thou feelst not my delight,
    Which neuer felt my fiery tuch of loue. 
    But thou whose pen hath like a Pack-horse seru’d,
    Whose stomack vnto gaule hath turn’d thy foode,
    Whose sences like poore prisoners hunger-staru’d,
    Whose griefe hath parch’d thy body, dry’d thy blood. 
    Thou which hast scorned life, and hated death,
    And in a moment mad, sober, glad, and sorry,
    Thou which hast band thy thoughts and curst thy breath,
    With thousand plagues more then in purgatory. 
      Thou thus whose spirit Loue in his fire refines,
      Come thou and reade, admire, applaud my lines.

Sonet 55

    Truce gentle loue, a parly now I craue,
    Me thinks, ’tis long since first these wars begun,
    Nor thou nor I, the better yet can haue: 
    Bad is the match where neither party wone. 
    I offer free conditions of faire peace,
    My hart for hostage, that it shall remaine,
    Discharge our forces heere, let malice cease,
    So for my pledge, thou giue me pledge againe. 
    Or if nothing but death will serue thy turne,
    Still thirsting for subuersion of my state;
    Doe what thou canst, raze, massacre, and burne,
    Let the world see the vtmost of thy hate: 
      I send defiance, since if ouerthrowne,
      Thou vanquishing, the conquest is mine owne.

Sonet 56

A Consonet

    Eyes with your teares, blind if you bee,
    Why haue these teares such eyes to see,
    Poore eyes, if yours teares cannot moue,
    My teares, eyes, then must mone my loue,
      Then eyes, since you haue lost your sight,
      Weepe still, and teares shall lend you light,
      Till both desolu’d, and both want might. 
    No, no, cleere eyes, you are not blind,
    But in my teares discerne my mind: 
    Teares be the language which you speake,
    Which my hart wanting, yet must breake;
      My tongue must cease to tell my wrongs,
      And make my sighs to get them tongs,
      Yet more then this to her belongs.

Sonet 57

To Lucie Countesse of Bedford

    Great Lady, essence of my chiefest good,
    Of the most pure and finest tempred spirit,
    Adorn’d with gifts, enobled by thy blood,
    Which by discent true vertue do’st inherit: 
    That vertue which no fortune can depriue,
    Which thou by birth tak’st from thy gracious mother,
    Whose royall minds with equall motion striue,
    Which most in honour shall excell the other;
    Vnto thy fame my Muse herself