Love, by sure proofe I may call thee unkinde,
That gives no better cares to my just cryes:
Thou whom to me, such my good turnes shouldst binde,
As I may well recount, but none can prise.
For when nak’d boy, hou couldst no harbour finde
In this olde world, (growne now so to be wise)
I lodg’de thee in my heart: and being blinde
By nature borne, I gave to thee my eyes.
Mine eyes, my light, my life, my hart alas,
If so great services may scorned be:
Yet let this thought thy Tygrish courage passe,
That I perhaps am somewhat kin to thee:
Since in thine armes, if learn’d fame truth hath spred,
Thou bearst the Arrowe, I the Arrowhed.