The Sonnets

As an unperfect actor on the stage,

Who with his fear is put beside his part,

Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,

Whose strengthʼs abundance weakens his own heart;

So I, for fear of trust, forget to say

The perfect ceremony of loveʼs rite,

And in mine own loveʼs strength seem to decay,

Oʼerchargʼd with burthen of mine own loveʼs might.

O! let my looks be then the eloquence

And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,

Who plead for love, and look for recompense,

More than that tongue that more hath more expressʼd.

O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:

To hear with eyes belongs to loveʼs fine wit.