SONNET. LXXVI. Fayre bosome fraught with vertues richest tresure, The neast of loue, the lodging of delight: the bowre of blisse, the paradice of pleasure, the sacred harbour of that heuenly spright: How was I rauisht with your louely sight, and my frayle thoughts too rashly led astray? whiles diuing deepe through amorous insight, on the sweet spoyle of beautie they did pray. And twixt her paps like early fruit in May, whose haruest seemd to hasten now apace: they loosely did theyr wanton winges display, and there to rest themselues did boldly place. Sweet thoughts I enuy your so happy rest, which oft I wisht, yet neuer was so blest.