Sonnet. X.

My God, my God, how much I loue my goddesse,
whose vertues rare, vnto the heauens arise,
my God, my God, how much I loue her eyes,
one shining bright, the other full of hardnes.
My God, my God, how much I loue her wisdome,
whose words may rauish heauens richest Maker,
of whose eyes-ioyes, if I might be pertaker,
then to my soule a holy rest would come.
My God, how much I loue to heare her speake,
whose hands I kisse, & rauisht oft rekisseth,
when she stands wotlesse whom so much she blisseth.
Say then what mind this honest loue wold breake,
Since her perfections pure withouten blot,
Makes her belou'd of them shee knoweth not?