Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 59

Dear, why make you more of a dog than me?
      If he do love, I burn, I burn in love;
      If he wait well, I never thence would move;
If he be fair, yet but a dog can be.
Little he is, so little worth is he;
      He barks, my songs thine own voice oft doth prove:
      Bidden, perhaps, he fetcheth thee a glove,
But I unbid, fetch even my soul to thee.
      Yet while I languish, him that bosom clips,
That lap doth lap, nay lets in spite of spite
This sour-breathed mate taste of those sugared lips.
Alas, if you grant only such delight
      To witless things, then love I hope (since wit
      Becomes a clog) will soon ease me of it.