1584.
¶Whose fame by pen for to discriue,
Doth passe ech wight that is aliue:
Then how dare I with boldned face,
Presume to craue or wish your grace?
And thus amazed as I stand,
Not feeling sense, nor moouing hand.
¶My soule with silence moouing sense,
Doth wish of God with reuerence,
Long life, and vertue you possesse:
To match those gifts of worthinesse,
And loue and pitie may be spide,
To be your chief and onely guide.
¶A proper Sonet, Intituled, Maid, wil you marrie. To the Blacke Almaine.
Aid, wil you marie? I pray sir tarie,
I am not disposed to wed a:
For he yat shal haue me, wil neuer deny me
he shal haue my maidenhed a.
Why then you wil not wed me?
No sure sir I haue sped me,
You must go seeke some other wight,
That better may your heart delight.
For I am sped I tell you true,
beleue me it greues me, I may not haue you,
To wed you and bed you as a woman shold be
¶For if I could, be sure I would,
consent to your desire:
I would not doubt, to bring about
ech thing you would require:
But promise now is made,
Which cannot be staide:
It is a womans honestie,
To keep her promise faithfully.
And so I do meane til death to do,
Consider and gather, that this is true:
Choose it, and vse it, the honester you.
