SONNET. LXV. The doubt which ye misdeeme, fayre loue, is vaine, That fondly feare to loose your liberty, when loosing one, two liberties ye gayne, and make him bond that bondage earst dyd fly. Sweet be the bands, the which true loue doth tye, without constraynt or dread of any ill: the gentle birde feeles no captiuity within her cage, but singes and feeds her fill. There pride dare not approch, nor discord spill the league twixt them, that loyal loue hath bound: but simple truth and mutuall good will, seekes with sweet peace to salue each others wound: There fayth doth fearlesse dwell in brasen towre, and spotlesse pleasure builds her sacred bowre.