Sonnet VII

How bless'd bee they, then, who his favors prove,
A life whereof the birth is just desire?
Breeding sweete flame, which harts inuite to move,
In these lov'd eyes which kindle Cupids fire,
And nurse his longings with his thoughts intire,
Fix't on the heat of wishes form'd by Love,
Yet whereas fire destroyes, this doth aspire,
Increase, and foster all delights above.
Love will a Painter make you, such, as you
Shall able be to draw, your onely deare,
More lively, perfect, lasting, and more true
Then rarest Workeman, and to you more neere.
These be the least, then all must needs confesse,
He that shuns Love, doth love himselfe the lesse.