a coyle is heere,
    I see your craft, now I perceaue your drift,
    And all this while, I was mistaken there. 
      Your loue and hate is this, I now doe proue you,
      You loue in hate, by hate to make me loue you.

Sonet 22

    An euill spirit your beauty haunts me still,
    Where-with (alas) I haue been long possest,
    Which ceaseth not to tempt me vnto ill,
    Nor giues me once but one pore minutes rest. 
    In me it speakes, whether I sleepe or wake,
    And when by meanes to driue it out I try,
    With greater torments then it me doth take,
    And tortures me in most extreamity. 
    Before my face, it layes all my dispaires,
    And hasts me on vnto a suddaine death;
    Now tempting me, to drown my selfe in teares,
    And then in sighing to giue vp my breath: 
      Thus am I still prouok’d to euery euill,
      By this good wicked spirit, sweet Angel deuill.

Sonet 23

To the Spheares

Thou which do’st guide this little world of loue, Thy planets mansions heere thou mayst behold, My brow the spheare where Saturne still doth moue, Wrinkled with cares:  and withered, dry, and cold; Mine eyes the Orbe where Iupiter doth trace, Which gently smile because they looke on thee, Mars in my swarty visage takes his place, Made leane with loue, where furious conflicts bee. Sol in my breast with his hote scorching flame, And in my hart alone doth Venus raigne:  Mercury my hands the Organs of thy fame, And Luna glides in my fantastick braine;
  The starry heauen thy prayse by me exprest,
Thou the first moouer, guiding all the rest.

Sonet 24

    Love banish’d heauen, in earth was held in scorne,
    Wandring abroad in neede and beggery,
    And wanting friends though of a Goddesse borne,
    Yet crau’d the almes of such as passed by. 
    I like a man, deuout and charitable;
    Clothed the naked, lodg’d this wandring guest,
    With sighs and teares still furnishing his table,
    With what might make the miserable blest;
    But this vngratefull for my good desart,
    Entic’d my thoughts against me to conspire,
    Who gaue consent to steale away my hart,
    And set my breast his lodging on a fire: 
      Well, well, my friends, when beggers grow thus bold,
      No meruaile then though charity grow cold.

Sonet 25

    O why should nature nigardly restraine,
    The Sotherne Nations relish not our tongue,
    Else should my lines glide on the waues of Rhene,
    And crowne the Pirens with my liuing song;
    But bounded thus to Scotland get you forth: 
    Thence take you wing vnto the Orcades,
    There let my verse get glory