Sonnet XXII. I saw the obiect of my pining thought

Thomas Watson (1555–1592)

I SAW the obiect of my pining thought,

VVithin a garden of sweete natures placing:

VVhere in an arbour artificiall wrought,

By workemans wondrous skill the garden gracing.

Did boast his glorie, glorie farre renowned,

For in his shadie boughs my Mistres slept:

And with a garland of his branches crowned,

Her daintie forehead from the sunne ykept.

Imperious loue vpon her eielids tending,

Playing his wanton sports at euery becke,

And into euerie finest limbe descending,

From eies to lips from lips to yuorie necke.

And euerie limbe supplide and t’euerie part,

Had free accesse but durst not touch her hart.