SONNET XXII

I, WITH whose colors Myra dressed her head,      I, that ware posies of her own hand-making, I, that mine own name in the chimneys read      By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking : Must I look on, in hope time coming may With change bring back my turn again to play? I, that on Sunday at the church-stile found      A garland sweet with true-love knots in flowers, Which I to wear about mine arms was bound,      That each of us might know that all was ours : Must I lead now an idle life in wishes, And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes? I, that did wear the ring her mother left,      I, for whose love she gloried to be blamed, I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft,      I, who did make her blush when I was named : Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked, Watching with sighs till dead love be awakèd ? I, that when drowsy Argus fell asleep,      Like Jealousy o'erwatchèd with Desire, Was ever warnèd modesty to keep      While her breath speaking kindled Nature's fire : Must I look on a-cold while others warm them ? Do Vulcan's brothers in such fine nets arm them ? Was it for this that I might Myra see      Washing the water with her beauties white ? Yet would she never write her love to me :      Thinks wit of change when thoughts are in delight ? Mad girls may safely love as they may leave : No man can print a kiss ; lines may deceive.