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Philip Sidney - Sonnet 62: Late, Tir`d With Woe
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Late tir`d with woe, ev`n ready for to pine, 
With rage of love, I call`d my love unkind; 
She is whose eyes Love, though unfelt, doth shine, 
Sweet said that I true love in her should find. 

I joy`d, but straight thus water`d was my wine, 
That love she did, but lov`d a Love not blind, 
Which would not let me, whem she lov`d, decline 
From nobler course, fit for my birth and mind: 

And therefore by her love`s authority, 
Will`d me these tempests of vain love to flee, 
And anchor fast myself on Virtue`s shore. 

Alas, if this the only metal be 
Of Love, new-coin`d to help my beggary, 
Dear, love me not, that you may love me more.
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