Sonnet 11

DAYLY when I do seeke and sew for peace,

And hostages' doe offer for my truth:

She cruell warrior, doth her selfe address,

To battell, and the weary war renew'th.

Ne wilbe mooved with reason or with rewth,

To graunt small respit to my restlesse toile:

But greedily her fell intent poursewth,

Of my poore life to make unpittied spoile.

Yet my poore life, all sorrowes to assoyle,

I would her yield, her wrath to pacify:

But then she seekes, with torment and turmoyle,

To force me liue, and will not let me dy.

All paine hath end, and euery war hath peace,

But mine no price nor prayer may surcease.