SONNET. VIII. More then most faire, full of the liuing fire, Kindled aboue vnto the maker neere: no eies but ioyes, in which al powers conspire, that to the world naught else be counted deare. Thrugh your bright beams doth not the blinded guest shoot out his darts to base affections wound? but Angels come to lead fraile mindes to rest in chast desires on heauenly beauty bound. You frame my thoughts and fashion me within, you stop my toung, and teach my hart to speake, you calme the storme that passion did begin, strong thrugh your cause, but by your vertue weak. Dark is the world, where your light shined neuer; well is he borne, that may behold you euer.