Those two sweet eyne did first to me appear
Which since have left me—yet that sorrow dear
Of Love still blessèd be, like as the bow
And shafts wherewith sweet Love did work me woe
With wounds most deep in this my bosom here.
Blest be the many voices wherewithal
I on my Lady’s well-belovèd name
Have called, and blest the sighs, the tears, the flame
Of my desire, and all my screeds designed
To praise her—yet most blest my thoughts I call,