Sonnet 26

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage

Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,

To thee I send this written embassage

To witness duty, not to show my wit:

Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine

May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,

But that I hope some good conceit of thine

In thy soul’s thought, all naked, will bestow it,

Till whatsoever star that guides my moving

Points on me graciously with fair aspect

And puts apparel on my tatter’d loving

To show me worthy of thy sweet respect.

Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;

Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.

Queen of my love, to whose goodness

In service my heart is devoted,

To your embassy I send you this

To honor you, not the one who wrote it.

I owe you a lot, beyond what words can show,

At least the words I have, and so I hope

Your thoughts will raise them from low

To high and take them into your envelope.

They’re poorly dressed, this much I know,

So I’ll wait for a muse to look kindly on me

And over them something throw

That speaks of more propriety.

Only then, my love, will I visit and tell you all,

When my words are well-suited for your naked soul.