to obey)
    To their grosse sence applie her selfe so ill? 
    Would God I were as ignorant as they
    When I am made vnhappy by my skill;
      Onely compeld on this poore good to boast,
      Heauens are not kind to them that know them most.

Sonnet 46

    Plain-path’d Experience the vnlearneds guide,
    Her simple followers euidently shewes,
    Sometime what schoolemen scarcely can decide,
    Nor yet wise Reason absolutely knowes: 
    In making triall of a murther wrought,
    If the vile actor of the heinous deede,
    Neere the dead bodie happily be brought,
    Oft hath been prou’d the breathlesse coarse will bleed;
    She comming neere that my poore hart hath slaine,
    Long since departed, (to the world no more)
    The auncient wounds no longer can containe,
    But fall to bleeding as they did before: 
      But what of this? should she to death be led,
      It furthers iustice, but helpes not the dead.

Sonnet 47

    In pride of wit, when high desire of fame
    Gaue life and courage to my labouring pen,
    And first the sound and vertue of my name,
    Won grace and credit in the eares of men: 
    With those the thronged Theaters that presse,
    I in the circuite for the Lawrell stroue,
    Where the full praise I freely must confesse,
    In heate of blood a modest minde might moue: 
    With showts and daps at euerie little pawse,
    When the prowd round on euerie side hath rung,
    Sadly I sit vnmou’d with the applawse,
    As though to me it nothing did belong: 
      No publique glorie vainely I pursue,
      The praise I striue, is to eternize you.

Sonnet 50

    As in some Countries far remote from hence,
    The wretched creature destined to die,
    Hauing the iudgement due to his offence,
    By Surgeons begg’d, their Art on him to trie: 
    Which on the liuing worke without remorce,
    First make incision on each maistring vaine,
    Then stanch the bleeding, then transperce the coarse,
    And with their balmes recure the wounds againe,
    Then poison and with Phisicke him restore,
    Not that they feare the hopelesse man to kill,
    But their experience to encrease the more;
    Euen so my Mistresse works vpon my ill,
      By curing me, and killing me each howre,
      Onely to shew her beauties soueraigne powre.

Sonnet 51