Sonnet 11

Sighing, and sadly sitting by my loue,
He askt the cause of my hearts sorrowing,
Coniuring me by heauens eternall King,
To tell the cause which me so much did moue.
Compell'd: (quoth I) to thee will I confesse,
Loue is the cause; and only loue it is
That doth depriue me of my heauenly blisse,
Loue is the paine that doth my heart oppresse.
And what is she (quoth he) who thou dos't loue?
Looke in this glasse (quoth I) there shalt thou see
The perfect forme of my felicitie.
When, thinking that it would strage Magique proue,
He open'd it: and taking off the couer
He straight perceau'd himselfe to be my Louer.