SONNET. XI.

Sighing, and sadly sitting by my Loue,
     He ask't the cause of my hearts sorrowing�
     Coniuring me by heauens eternall King
To tell the cause which me so much did moue.
Compell'd: (quoth I) to thee I will confesse,
     Loue is the cause; and onely loue it is
     That doth depriue me of my heauenly blisse.
Loue is the paine that doth my heart oppresse.
And what is she (quoth he) who~ thou do'st loue?
     Looke in this glasse (quoth I) there shalt thou see
     The perfect for me of my faelicitie.
When, thinking that it would stra~ge Magique proue,
     He open'd it: and taking off the couer,
     He straight perceau'd himselfe to be my Louer.