Sonet 51

I dream'd, the Nymph that ore my fancie raignes, Came to a part whereas I paus'd alone; Then said, what needs you in such sort to mone? Haue I not power to recompence your paines? Lo I coniure you by that loyall loue, Which you professe, to cast those griefes apart, It's long deare loue since that you had my hart, Yet I was coy your constancie to proue, But hauing had a proofe, Ile now be free: I am the Eccho that your sighes resounds, Your woes are mine, I suffer in your wounds, Your passions all they sympathize in me: Thus whil'st for kindnesse both began to weepe, My happinesse euanish'd with the sleepe.