SONNET. VIII.
Ometimes I wish that I his pillow were,
So might I steale a kisse, and yet not seene,
So might I gaze vpon his sleeping eine,
Although I did it with a panting feare:
But when I well consider how vaine my wish is,
Ah foolish Bees (thinke I) that doe not sucke
His lips for hony; but poore flowers doe plucke
Which haue no sweet in them: when his sole kisses,
Are able to reuiue a dying soule.
Kisse him, but sting him not, for if you doe,
His angry voice your flying will pursue:
But when they heare his tongue, what can controule,
Their back-returne? for then they plaine may see,
How hony-combs from his lips dropping bee.
SONNET. IX.
Iana (on a time) walking the wood,
To sport herselfe, of her faire traine forlorne,
Chaunc't for to pricke her foote against a thorne,
And from thence issu'd out a streame of blood.
No sooner shee was vanisht out of sight,
But loues faire Queen came there away by chance,
And hauing of this hap a glym'ring glance,
She put the blood into a christall bright,
When being now come vnto mount Rhodope,
With her faire hands she formes a shape of Snow,
And blends it with this blood; from whence doth grow
A louely creature, brighter than the Dey.
And being christned in faire Paphos shrine,
She call'd him Ganymede: as all diuine.
