Sweet Judge
ALAS! whence comes this change of looks? If IHave changed desert, let mine own conscience beA still-felt plague to self-condemning me,Let woe gripe on my heart, shame load mine eye;But if all faith, like spotless ermine, lieSafe in my soul, which only doth to thee,As his sole object of felicity,With wings of love in air of wonder fly,O ease your hand, treat not so hard your slave;In justice, pains come not till faults do call:Or if I needs, sweet Judge, must torments have,Use something else to chasten me withalThan those blest eyes, where all my hopes do dwell:No doom should make one’s heaven become his hell.