Sonnet 41. To his Maistres. III

So suete a kis jistrene fra thee I reft,
In bouing doun thy body on the bed,
That evin my lyfe within thy lippis I left ;
Sensyne from thee my spirits wald neuer shed ;

To folou thee it from my body fled,
And left my corps als cold as ony kie.
Bot vhen the danger of my death I dred,
To seik my spreit I sent my harte to thee ;

Bot it wes so inamored with thyn ee,
With thee it myndit lykuyse to remane :
So thou hes keepit captive all the thrie,
More glaid to byde then to retume agane.

Except thy breath thare places had suppleit,
Euen in thyn armes thair doutles had I deit.