Fayre eyes, the myrrour of my mazed hart,
what wondrous vertue is contaynd in you
the which both lyfe and d**h forth from you dart
into the object of your mighty view?
For when ye mildly looke with lovely hew,
then is my soule with life and love inspired:
but when ye lowre, or looke on me askew
then doe I die, as one with lightning fyred.
But since that lyfe is more then d**h desyred,
looke euer lovely, as becomes you best,
that your bright beams of my weak eies admyred,
may kindle living fire within my brest.
Such life should be the honor of your light,
such d**h the sad ensample of your might.