My life forgets to nourish languisht sprights:
Yet still on me (ô 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.
Faire eyes, sweet lips, deere hart, that foolish I
Could hope by Cupids helpe, on you to pray:
Since to himselfe he doth your gifts apply,
As his maine force, chiefe sport, and easefull stay.
For when he will see who dare him gainsay,