Poems: by Michaell Draiton Esquire

Sonnet. 2.

MY hart was slaine, and none but you and I, who should I thinke the murther should cōmit? Since but your selfe, there was no creature by But onely I, guiltlesse of murthring it. It slew it selfe; the verdict on the view Doe quit the dead, and me not accessary; Well, well, I feare it will be prou'd by you, The euidence so great a proofe doth carry. But O, see, see, we neede enquire no further, Vpon your lips the scarlet drops are found, And in your eye, the boy that did the murther, Your cheeks yet pale since first they gaue the wound. By this, I see, how euer things be past, Yet heauen will still haue murther out at last.