Sonnet 58

To Prouerbe

As Loue and I, late harbour’d in one Inne, With Prouerbs thus each other intertaine; In loue there is no lacke, thus I beginne?  Faire words makes fooles, replieth he againe?  That spares to speake, doth spare to speed (quoth I) As well (saith he) too forward as too slow.  Fortune assists the boldest, I replie?  A hasty man (quoth he) nere wanted woe.  Labour is light, where loue (quoth I) doth pay, (Saith he) light burthens heauy, if farre borne?  (Quoth I) the maine lost, cast the by away:  You haue spunne a faire thred, he replies in scorne. 
  And hauing thus a while each other thwarted,
Fooles as we met, so fooles againe we parted.

Sonnet 63

To the high and mighty Prince, James, King of Scots

    Not thy graue Counsells, nor thy Subiects loue,
    Nor all that famous Scottish royaltie,
    Or what thy soueraigne greatnes may approue,
    Others in vaine doe but historifie,
    When thine owne glorie from thy selfe doth spring,
    As though thou did’st, all meaner prayses scorne: 
    Of Kings a Poet, and the Poets King,
    They Princes, but thou Prophets do’st adorne;
    Whilst others by their Empires are renown’d,
    Thou do’st enrich thy Scotland with renowne,
    And Kings can but with Diadems be crown’d,
    But with thy Laurell, thou doo’st crowne thy Crowne;
      That they whose pens, euen life to Kings doe giue,
      In thee a King, shall seeke them selues to liue.

Sonnet 66

To the Lady L.S.

    Bright starre of Beauty, on whose eyelids sit,
    A thousand Nimph-like and enamoured Graces,
    The Goddesses of memory and wit,
    Which in due order take their seuerall places,
    In whose deare bosome, sweet delicious loue,
    Layes downe his quiuer, that he once did beare,
    Since he that blessed Paradice did proue,
    Forsooke his mothers lap to sport him there. 
    Let others striue to entertaine with words,
    My soule is of another temper made;
    I hold it vile that vulgar wit affords,
    Deuouring time my faith, shall not inuade: 
      Still let my praise be honoured thus by you,
      Be you most worthy, whilst I be most true.

[from the Edition of 1605]

Sonnet 43

    Why should your faire eyes with such soueraine grace,
    Dispearse their raies on euery vulgar spirit,
    Whilst I in darknes in the selfesame place,
    Get not one glance to recompence my merit: 
    So doth the plow-man gaze the wandring starre,
    And onely rests contented with the light,
    That neuer learnd what constellations are,
    Beyond the bent of his vnknowing sight. 
    O why should beautie (custome