Sonnet XXII Come Time

Come Time, the anchor-hold of my desire,

My last resort whereto my hopes appeal,

Cause once the date of her disdain t'expire;

Make her the sentence of her wrath repeal.

Rob her fair Brow, break in on Beauty, steal Power from those eyes, which pity cannot spare;

Deal with those dainty cheeks as she doth deal With this poor heart consumed with despair;

This heart made now the prospective of care,

By loving her, the cruelst Fair that lives,

The cruelst Fair that sees I pine for her,

And never mercy to my merit gives.

Let her not still triumph over the prize Of mine affections taken by her eyes.