Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness

SONNET CCCLXIX

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed:
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!'
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,
And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
Or state itself confounded, to decay;
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;
But makes antiquity for aye his page;
  How can my muse want subject to invent,
  Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,

SONNET MCXXXVIII

For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
With all triumphant splendour on my brow;
Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue:
O! let me suffer, being at your beck,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth;
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Than that which on thy humour doth depend:
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
  Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his fickle hour;
  O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,