Sonnet. V.

AMend thy stile who can: who can amend thy stile?
For sweet conceit.
Alas the while,
That euer any such, as thou shouldst die,
By fortunes guile,
Amids thy meate.
Pardon (Oh pardon) me that cannot shew,
My zealous loue.
Yet shalt thou proue,
That I will euer write in thy behoue:
Gainst any dare,
With thee compare.
[illeg.] An't is not Hodge-poke nor his fellow deare,
That I doe feare:
As shall appeare.
But him alone that is the Muses owne,
And eke my friend,
Whome to the end,
My muse must euer honor and adore:
Doe what I can.
To praise the man,
It is impossible for me that am,
So far behinde.
Yet is my minde,
As forward as the best, if wit so would
With will agree.
But since I see,
It will not bee:
I am content, my folly to confesse:
And pardon craue.
Which if I haue,
My Fortunes greater than my former fall:
I must confesse.



But if he otherwise esteeme of me,
Than as a friend or one that honors thee:
Then is my labor lost, my care consumde.
Because I hate the hope, that so presumde