Who hath his fancie pleased,
With fruits of happie sight,
Let here his eyes be raised
On natures sweetest light.
A light which doth dissever,
And yet unite the eyes,
A light which dying never,
Is cause the looker dyes.
She never dies but lasteth
In life of lovers hart,
He ever dies that wasteth
In love, his chiefest part.
Thus is her life still guarded,
In never dying faith:
Thus is his death rewarded,
Since she lives in his death.
Looke then and dye, the pleasure
Doth answere well the paine:
Small losse of mortall treasure,
Who may immortall gaine.
Immortall be her graces,
Immortall is her minde:
They fit for heavenly places,
This heaven in it doth binde.
But eyes these beauties see not,
Nor sence that grace descryes:
Yet eyes deprived be not,
From sight of her faire eyes:
Which as of inward glorie
They are the outward seale:
So may they live still sorie
Which die not in that weale.
But who hath fancies pleased,
With fruits of happie sight,
Let here his eyes be raysed
On natures sweetest light.