Sonnet XVII. As are the sands, fair Licia, on the shore

Giles Fletcher (1586?–1623)

AS are the sands, fair LICIA, on the shore;

Or coloured flowers, garlands of the Spring;

Or as the frosts not seen nor felt before;

Or as the fruits that Autumn forth doth bring;

As twinkling stars, the tinsel of the night;

Or as the fish that gallop in the seas;

As airs, each part that still escapes our sight:

So are my Sighs, controllers of my ease.

Yet these are such as needs must have an end,

For things finite, none else hath Nature done:

Only the sighs which from my heart I send

Will never cease, but where they first began.

Accept them, Sweet, as incense due to thee!

For you immortal made them so to be.