Blessed eyes, then give your blessing,
That in passion's best expressing;
Love that only lives to grace ye,
May not suffer pride deface ye;
But in gentle thought's directions
Show the power of your perfections.
Robert Greene.
LOVE'S SERVILE LOT.
Love mistress is of many minds,
Yet few know whom they serve;
They reckon least how little hope
Their service doth deserve.
The will she robbeth from the wit,
The sense from reason's lore;
She is delightful in the rind,
Corrupted in the core.
May never was the month of love,
For May is full of flowers;
But rather April, wet by kind;
For love is full of showers.
With soothing words inthrallèd souls
She chains in servile bands!
Her eye in silence hath a speech
Which eye best understands.
Her little sweet hath many sours,
Short hap, immortal harms;
Her loving looks are murdering darts,
Her songs bewitching charms.