Sonnet 28

THE laurell leafe which you this day doe weare,

Guies me great hope of your relenting mynd:

For since it is the badg which I doe beare,

Ye, bearing it, doe seeme to me inclind:

The powre thereof, which ofte in me I find,

Let it lykewise your gentle brest inspire

With sweet infusion, and put you in mind

Of that proud mayd, whom now those leaves attyre.

Proud Daphne, scorning Phoebus louely fyre,

On the Thessalian shore from him did flee:

For which the gods, in theyr revengefull yre

Did her transforme into a laurell tree.

Then fly no more, fayre loue, from Phebus chace,

But in your brest his leafe and love embrace.