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Michael Drayton - Sonnet XLIX: Thou Leaden Brain
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Thou leaden brain, which censur`st what I write, 
And say`st my lines be dull and do not move, 
I marvel not thou feel`st not my delight, 
Which never felt`st my fiery touch of love. 
But thou, whose pen hath like a pack-horse serv`d, 
Whose stomach unto gall hath turn`d thy food, 
Whose senses, like poor prisoners, hunger-starv`d, 
Whose grief hath parch`d thy body, dried thy blood, 
Thou which hast scorned life and hated death, 
And in a moment mad, sober, glad, and sorry, 
Thou which hast bann`d thy thoughts and curs`d thy breath 
With thousand plagues, more than in Purgatory, 
Thou thus whose spirit Love in his fire refines, 
Come thou, and read, admire, applaud my lines.
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