Sonet 12

Sweet blushing goddesse of the golden morning,
Faire patronesse of all the worlds affaires,
Thou art become so carelesse of my cares,
That I must name thee goddesse of my mourning.
Lo how the Sunne part of thy burthen beares,
And whil'st thou doest in pearly drops regrate,
As t'were to pitie thy distressed state,
Exhales the Christall of thy glistring teares;
But I poure forth my vowes before thy shrine,
And whil'st thou dost my louing zeale despise,
Do drowne my heart in th'ocean of mine eyes;
Yet daign'st thou not to drie these teares of mine,
Vnlesse it be with th' Ætna of desires,
Which euen amidst those floods doth foster fires.