The Sonnets

Let those who are in favour with their stars

Of public honour and proud titles boast,

Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars

Unlookʼd for joy in that I honour most.

Great princesʼ favourites their fair leaves spread

But as the marigold at the sunʼs eye,

And in themselves their pride lies buried,

For at a frown they in their glory die.

The painful warrior famoused for fight,

After a thousand victories once foilʼd,

Is from the book of honour razed quite,

And all the rest forgot for which he toilʼd:

Then happy I, that love and am belovʼd,

Where I may not remove nor be removʼd.