Hath just such dark and shaded eyes as thine.
SONNET.
I have been gazing on thee, Genevieve,
And musing, in my love, if thou must die;
And I have thought it were not well to grieve
At thy most delicate frame and lustrous eye;
For as a harp is broken, when the finger
That knew its cunning hath forgot to play,
Thou wouldst not, for that frail confinement, linger,
When it was time for thee to pass away;