Sonet 43

Now when the Syren sings, as one dismaid, I straight with waxe begin to stop mine eares; And when the Crocadile doth shed foorth teares, I flie away, for feare to be betraid. I know when as thou seem'st to waile my state, Thy face is no true table of thy mind: And thou wouldst neuer shew thy selfe so kind, Wert not thy thoughts are hatching some deceit: Whil'st with vaine hopes thou go'st about to fill me. I wot whereto those drams of fauour tend; Lest by my death thy cruelties should end, Thou think'st by giuing life againe to kill me: No, no, thou shalt not thus thy greatnesse raise, Ile breake the trumpet that proclaim'd thy praise.