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Philip Sidney - Sonnet 59: Dear, Why Make You More
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Dear, why make you more of a dog than me? 
If he do love, I burn, I burn in love; 
If he wait well, I never thence would move; 
If he be fair, yet but a dog can be. 

Little he is, so little worth is he; 
He barks, my songs thine own voice oft doth prove:
Bidden perhaps he fetcheth thee a glove, 
But I unbid, fetch ev`n my soul to thee. 

Yet while I languish, him that bosom clips, 
That lap doth lap, nay lets in spite of spite 
This sour-breath`d mate taste of those sugar`d lips.

Alas, if you grant only such delight 
To witless thngs, then Love I hope (since wit 
Becomes a clog) will soon ease me of it.
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