SONNET. XXVIII. The laurell leafe, which you this day doe weare, giues me great hope of your relenting mynd: for since it is the badg which I doe beare, ye bearing it doe seeme to me inclind: The powre thereof, which ofte in me I find, let it lykewise your gentle brest inspire with sweet infusion, and put you in mind of that proud mayd, whom now those leaues attyre: Proud Daphne scorning Phæbus louely fyre, on the Thessalian shore from him did flee: for which the gods in theyr reuengefull yre did her transforme into a laurell tree. Then fly no more fayre loue from Phebus chace, but in your brest his leafe and loue embrace.