shall taske,
    Which rain’st vpon me thy sweet golden showers,
    And but thy selfe, no subject will I aske,
    Vpon whose praise my soule shall spend her powers. 
      Sweet Lady yet, grace this poore Muse of mine,
      Whose faith, whose zeale, whose life, whose all is thine.

Sonet 58

To the Lady Anne Harington

    Madam, my words cannot expresse my mind,
    My zealous kindnes to make knowne to you,
    When your desarts all seuerally I find;
    In this attempt of me doe claim their due,
    Your gracious kindnes that doth claime my hart;
    Your bounty bids my hand to make it knowne,
    Of me your vertues each doe claime a part,
    And leaue me thus the least part of mine owne. 
    What should commend your modesty and wit,
    Is by your wit and modesty commended
    And standeth dumbe, in much admiring it,
    And where it should begin, it there is ended;
      Returning this your prayses onely due,
      And to your selfe say you are onely you.

[from the Edition of 1602]

Sonnet 12

To Lunacie

    As other men, so I my selfe doe muse,
    Why in this sort I wrest Inuention so,
    And why these giddy metaphors I vse,
    Leauing the path the greater part doe goe;
    I will resolue you; I am lunaticke,
    And euer this in mad men you shall finde,
    What they last thought on when the braine grew sick,
    In most distraction keepe that still in minde. 
    Thus talking idely in this bedlam fit,
    Reason and I, (you must conceiue) are twaine,
    ’Tis nine yeeres, now, since first I lost my wit
    Beare with me, then, though troubled be my braine;
      With diet and correction, men distraught,
      (Not too farre past) may to their wits be brought.

Sonnet 17

    If hee from heauen that filch’d that liuing fire,
    Condemn’d by Ioue to endlesse torment be,
    I greatly meruaile how you still goe free,
    That farre beyond Promethius did aspire? 
    The fire he stole, although of heauenly kinde,
    Which from aboue he craftily did take,
    Of liueles clods vs liuing men to make,
    Againe bestow’d in temper of the mind. 
    But you broke in to heauens immortall store,
    Where vertue, honour, wit, and beautie lay,
    Which taking thence, you haue escap’d away,
    Yet stand as free as ere you did before. 
      But old Promethius punish’d for his rape,
      Thus poore theeues suffer, when the greater scape.

Sonnet 25

To Folly