The Second Decade. Sonnet VIII. The fowler hides, as closely as he may

Henry Constable (1562–1613)

THE FOWLER hides, as closely as he may,

The net, where caught the silly bird should be;

Lest he the threatening poison should but see,

And so for fear be forced to fly away.

My Lady so, the while she doth assay

In curled knots fast to entangle me;

Put on her veil, to th’end I should not flee

The golden net, wherein I am a prey.

Alas, most Sweet! what need is of a net

To catch a bird, that is already ta’en?

Sith with your hand alone, you may it get;

For it desires to fly into the same.

What needs such art, my thoughts then to entrap;

When, of themselves, they fly into your lap?