Sonnet

I hope, sweet soul, to see, at my return, The heavenly colour of your angel face, Which is the fire and flame whereby I burn, And never is impaired by time nor place. Wherefore, shall als behold in me, this space, No other change but that of hair and hue: As for my heart, which loves in pain, but peace, Even as it was, so shall you find it, true. But what shall I again in you review, But rigours, frosts, denials and disdains; And in that face from which doth aye ensue The streaming course of my incessant pains, A farther fairness, with a farther pride, Which till my death, so long with thee must bide.