For he hath been a fool as well as I.
Thus shall henceforth more pain, more folly have;
And folly past, may justly pardon crave.

A CALCULATION UPON THE BIRTH OF AN HONOURABLE LADY'S DAUGHTER, BORN IN
THE YEAR 1588 AND ON A FRIDAY

Fair by inheritance, whom born we see
Both in the wondrous year and on the day
Wherein the fairest planet beareth sway,
The heavens to thee this fortune doth decree!
Thou of a world of hearts in time shall be
A monarch great, and with one beauty's ray
So many hosts of hearts thy face shall slay,
As all the rest for love shall yield to thee,
But even as Alexander when he knew
His father's conquests wept, lest he should leave
No kingdom unto him for to subdue:
So shall thy mother thee of praise bereave;
So many hearts already she hath slain,
As few behind to conquer shall remain.

SONNETS FROM THE MANUSCRIPT EDITION, NOT FOUND IN THAT OF 1594

I

_Of the sudden surprising of his heart, and how unawares he was caught_

Delight in your bright eyes my death did breed,
As light and glittering weapons babes allure
To play with fire and sword, and so procure
Then to be burnt and hurt ere they take heed,
Thy beauty so hath made me burn and bleed;
Yet shall my ashes and my blood assure
Thy beauty's fame forever to endure;
For thy fame's life from my death doth proceed;
Because my heart to ashes burned giveth
Life to thy fame, thou right a phoenix art,
And like a pelican thy beauty liveth
By sucking blood out of my breast and heart.
Lo why with wonder we may thee compare
Unto the pelican and phoenix rare!

II

_An exhortation to the reader to come and see his mistress's beauty_

Eyes curious to behold what nature can create,
Come see, come see, and write what wonder you do see,
Causing by true report our next posterity
Curse fortune for that they were born too late!
Come then and come ye all, come soon lest that
The time should be too short and men too few should be;
For all be few to write her least part's history,
Though they should ever write and never write but that.
Millions look on her eyes, millions think on her wit,
Millions speak of her, millions write of her hand.
The whole eye on the lip I do not understand;
Millions too few to praise but some one