Song

Who hath his fancy pleased  With fruits of happy sight,

Let here his eyes be raised  On Nature's sweetest light;

A light which doth dissever  And yet unite the eyes,

A light which, dying never,  Is cause the looker dies.

She never dies, but lasteth  In life of lover's heart;

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.

Look then, and die!

The pleasure  Doth answer well the pain:

Small loss of mortal treasure,  Who may immortal gain!

Immortal be her graces,  Immortal is her mind;

They, fit for heavenly places—  This, heaven in it doth bind.

But eyes these beauties see not,  Nor sense that grace descries;

Yet eyes deprived be not  From sight of her fair eyes—Which, as of inward glory  They are the outward seal,

So may they live still sorry,  Which die not in that weal.

But who hath fancies pleased  With fruits of happy sight,

Let here his eyes be raised  On Nature's sweetest light!