Sonnet 22

THIS holy season, fit to fast and pray,

Men to deuotion ought to be inclynd:

Therefore, I likewise, on so holy day,

For my sweet saynt some seruice fit will find,

Her temple fayre is built within my mind,

In which her glorious ymage placéd is,

On which my thoughts doo day and night attend

Lyke sacred priests that neuer thinke amisse.

There I to her, as th'author of my blisse,

Will builde an altar to appease her yre:

And on the same my hart will sacrifise,

Burning in flames of pure and chast desyre:

The which vouchsafe, O goddesse, to accept,

Amongst thy deerest relicks to be kept.