Sonnet CVII:
CVII
Now I have won my lady’s priceless heart—
Hold full possession with a sway as wide
As the moon’s rule above the flowing tide—
Why, as she came, may she not so depart?
Surely the tinkling of my lute, this art,
Profaned by every fool whose love has sighed
In crippled rhymes, her love will not abide
If sober reason from its slumber start.
What more have I? Alas! I see no charm
In these dim eyes, bent brows and grizzled hair
Which brazen flattery could belie for fair.
In thy own truth my nakedness must arm,
As love’s defense against beleaguering harm,
Trusting to that, which guards me everywhere.
