Sonnet 10 - Like to the Indians, scorched with the sun

Like to the Indians, scorched with the sun,

The sun which they do as their God adore,

So am I used by love, for ever more

I worship him, less favour have I won,

Better are they who thus to blackness run,

And so can only whiteness' want deplore

Than I who pale and white am with grief's store,

Nor can have hope, but to see hopes undone;

Besides their sacrifice received's in sight

Of their chose saint: mine hid as worthless rite;

Grant me to see where I my offerings give,

Then let me wear the mark of Cupid's might

In heart as they in skin do Phoebus' light,

Not ceasing offerings to love while I live.