Sonnet

Fair my love that feeds among the lilies,
The lilies growing in the pleasant garden,
Where Cupid's mount, that well-beloved hill is,
And where that little god himself is warden,
See where my love sits in the beds of spices,
Beset all round with camphor, myrrh, and roses,
And interlac'd with curious devices,
Which her from all the world apart incloses,
There doth she tune her lute for her delight,
And with sweet music makes the ground to move,
Whilst I (poor I) do sit in heavy plight,
Wailing alone my unrespected love,
Not daring to rush into so rare a place,
That gives to her, and she to it, a grace.

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