THE SONNET.

                    I.
                    No more
Thou little winged archer, now no more
                    As heretofore,
Thou maist pretend within my breast to bide,
                    No more,
Since cruell Death of dearest LYNDAMORE
                    Hath me depriv'd,
I bid adieu to love, and all the world beside.

                    II.
                    Go, go;
Lay by thy quiver and unbend thy bow
                    Poore sillie foe,
Thou spend'st thy shafts but at my breast in vain,
                    Since Death
My heart hath with a fatall icie deart
                    Already slain,
Thou canst not ever hope to warme her wound,
                    Or wound it o're againe.]


               THE ANSWER.

                    I.
                    Againe,
Thou witty cruell wanton, now againe,
                    Through ev'ry veine,
Hurle all your lightning, and strike ev'ry dart,
                    Againe,
Before I feele this pleasing, pleasing paine.
                    I have no heart,
Nor can I live but sweetly murder'd with
                    So deare, so deare a smart.

                    II.
                    Then flye,
And kindle all your torches at her eye,
                    To make me dye
Her martyr, and put on my roabe of flame:
                    So I,
Advanced on my blazing wings on high,
                    In death became
Inthroan'd a starre, and ornament unto
                    Her glorious, glorious name.