Morpheus the lively sonne of deadlie Sleepe,
Witnes of life to them that living die:
A Prophet oft, and oft an Historie,
A Poet eake as humors flye and creepe:
Since thou in me so sure a power doost keepe,
That never I with clos’d up fence doe lye,
But by thy worke, my Stella I discry,
Teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weepe,
Vouchsafe of all acquaintance this to tell,
Whence hast thou Ivorie, Rubies, Pearle, and Golde,
To shew her skin, lips, teeth, and head so well?
(Foole aunswers he) no Indes such treasures hold,
But from thy hart, while my Sire charmeth thee,
Sweet Stellas Image I do steale to mee.