O Eyes which doe the Spheres of beautie move,
Whose beames all joyes, whose joyes all vertues be:
Who while they make Love conquer, conquer Love,
The Schooles where Venus hath learnd Chastitie;
O eyes, where humble lookes most glorious prove,
Onely loved tyrants just in crueltie.
Doe not, doe not, from poore me, once remove,
Keepe still my Zenith, ever shine on me;
For though I never see them, but straight waies
My life forgets to nourish languisht sprights:
Yet still on me (รด eyes) dart downe your rayes;
And if from Majestie of sacred Lights
Oppressing mortall sence, my death proceede:
Wreckes tryumphs best, which Love hie set doth breed.