A Sonnet, To His Mother As A New Year's Gift From Cambridge

My God, where is that ancient heat towards thee,

  Wherewith whole shoals of martyrs once did burn,

Besides their other flames? Doth poetry

  Wear Venus' livery? only serve her turn?

Why are not sonnets made of thee? and lays

  Upon thine altar burnt? Cannot thy love

Heighten a spirit to sound out thy praise

  As well as any she? Cannot thy Dove

Outstrip their Cupid easily in flight?

  Or, since thy ways are deep, and still the fame,

  Will not a verse run smooth that bears thy name!

Why doth that fire, which by thy power and might

  Each breast does feel, no braver fuel choose

  Than that, which one day, worms may chance refuse.

Sure, Lord, there is enough in thee to dry

  Oceans of ink; for, as the Deluge did

Cover the earth, so doth thy Majesty:

  Each cloud distills thy praise, and doth forbid

Poets to turn it to another use.

  Roses and lilies speak thee; and to make

A pair of cheeks of them, is thy abuse

  Why should I women's eyes for crystal take?

Such poor invention burns in their low mind

  Whose fire is wild, and doth not upward go

  To praise, and on thee, Lord, some ink bestow.

Open the bones, and you shall nothing find

In the best face but filth; when Lord, in thee

The beauty lies in the discovery.