SONNET. XII.
Ome talke of Ganymede th' Idalian Boy,
And some of faire Adonis make their boast,
Some talke of him whom louely Læda lost,
And some of Ecchoes loue that was so coy.
They speake by heere-say, I of perfect truth,
They partially commend the persons named,
And for them, sweet Encomions haue framed:
I onely t'him haue sacrifized my youth.
As for those wonders of antiquitie,
And those whom later ages haue inioy'd,
(But ah what hath not cruell death destroide?
Death, that enuies this worlds felicitie),
They were (perhaps) lesse faire then Poets write.
But he is fairer then I can indite.
SONNET. XIII.
Peake Eccho, tell; how may I call my loue? Loue.
But how his Lamps that are so christaline? Eyne.
Oh happy starrs that make your heauens diuine:
And happy Iems that admiration moue.
How tearm'st his golden tresses wan'd with aire? Haire.
Oh louely haire of your more-louely Maister,
Image of loue, faire shape of Alablaster,
Why do'st thou driue thy Louer to dispaire?
How do'st thou cal the bed wher beuty grows? Rose.
Faire virgine-Rose, whose mayden blossoms couer
The milke-white Lilly, thy imbracing Louer:
Whose kisses makes thee oft thy red to lose.
And blushing oft for shame, when he hath kist thee,
He vades away, and thou raing'st where it list thee.
