Copartner of the ritches of that sight:
Let not mine eyes be driven from that light;
ô looke, ô shine, ô let me die and see,
For though I oft my selfe of them bemone,
That through my hart their beamie darts be gone,
Whose curelesse wounds even nowe most freshly bleede;
Yet since my deaths wound is already got,
Deere killer, spare not thy sweete cruell shot,
A kinde of grace it is to slaye with speede.
I on my horse, and Love on me doth trie