SONNET. LXXIII. Being my selfe captyued here in care, My hart, whom none with seruile bands can tye, but the fayre tresses of your golden hayre, breaking his prison forth to you doth fly. Lyke as a byrd that in ones hand doth spy desired food, to it doth make his flight: euen so my hart, that wont on your fayre eye to feed his fill, flyes backe vnto your sight. Doe you him take, and in your bosome bright, gently encage, that he may be your thrall: perhaps he there may learne with rare delight, to sing your name and prayses ouer all. That it hereafter may you not repent, him lodging in your bosome to haue lent.