THe laurell leafe, which you this day doe weare, <br />guies me great hope of your relenting mynd: <br />for since it is the badg which I doe beare, <br />ye bearing it doe seeme to me inclind: <br />The powre thereof, which ofte in me I find, <br />let it lykewise your gentle brest inspire <br />with sweet infusion, and put you in mind <br />of that proud mayd, whom now those leaues attyre <br />Proud Daphne scorning Phaebus louely fyre, <br />on the Thessalian shore from him did flie: <br />for which the gods in theyr reuengefull yre <br />did her transforme into a laurell tree. <br />Then fly no more fayre loue from Phebus chace, <br />but in your brest his leafe and loue embrace.<br /><br />Edmund Spenser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxviii-3/
