Sonnet 32

How fast thou fliest, O Time, on loves swift wings
To hopes of joy, that flatters our desire
Which to a lover, still, contentment brings!
Yett, when wee should injoy thou dost retire,

Thou stay'st thy pace faulse time from our desire,
When to our ill thou hast'st with Eagles wings,
Slowe, only to make us see thy retire
Was for dispayre, and harme, which sorrowe brings;

O! slacke thy pase, and milder pass to love;
Bee like the Bee, whose wings she doth butt use
To bring home profitt, masters good to prove
Laden, and weary, yett againe pursues,
Soe lade thy self with honnye of sweet joye,
And doe nott mee the Hive of love destroy.
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