Sonnet 77

I long to see this Pilgrimage expire, That makes the eyes for to enuie the mind, Whose sight with absence cannot be confin'd, But warmes it selfe still at thy beauties fire. Loue in my bosome did thy image sinke So deepely once, it cannot be worne out: Yet once the eyes may haue their course about, And see farre more, then now the mind can thinke Ile once retire in time before I die, There where thou first my libertie didst spoile: For otherwise dead in a forraine soile, Still with my selfe entomb'd my faith shall lie. No, no, Ile rather die once in thy sight, Then in this state die ten times in one night.