SONNET X

LOUE, of man's wandring thoughts the restlesse being, Thou from my mind with glory was inuited; Glory of those faire eyes, where all eyes, seeing Vertue's and Beautie's riches, are delighted; What angell's pride, or what selfe-disagreeing, What dazling brightnesse hath your beames benighted,      That fall'n thus from those ioyes which you aspired,      Downe to my darkened minde you are retired? Within which minde since you from thence ascended, Truth clouds it selfe; Wit serues but to resemble; Enuie is king, at others' good offended; Memorie doth worlds of wretchednesse assemble; Passion to ruine passion is intended; My reason is but power to dissemble;      Then tell me Loue, what glory you diuine      Your selfe can find within this soule of mine? Rather goe backe vnto that heauenly quire Of Nature's riches, in her beauties placed, And there in contemplation feed desire, Which till it wonder, is not rightly graced; For those sweet glories, which you doe aspire, Must, as idea's,1 only be embraced,      Since excellence in other forme enioyed,      Is by descending to her Saints destroyed. 1 Notice apostrophe for plural, as before.   Grosart.