Sonnet 13 - famish not what you yourself gave food

Dear, famish not what you yourself gave food,

Destroy not what your glory is to save;

Kill not that soul to which you spirit gave;

In pity, not disdain your triumph stood;

An easy thing it is to shed the blood

Of one, who at your will, yields to the grave;

But more you may true worth by mercy crave

When you preserve, not spoil, but nourish good;

Your sight is all the food I doe desire;

Then sacrifice me not in hidden fire,

Or stop that breath which did your praises move:

Think butt how easy 'tis a sight to give;

Nay even desert; since by it I doe live,

I but Chameleon-like would live, and love.