To finde where your true Image pictur'd lies, Which in my bosomes shop is hanging stil, That hath his windowes glazed with thine eyes: Now see what good-turnes eyes for eies haue done, Mine eyes haue drawne thy shape,and thine for me Are windowes to my brest, where-through the Sun Delights to peepe,to gaze therein on thee    Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art    They draw but what they see,know not the hart. 25

L Et those who are in fauor with their stars, Of publike honour and proud titles bost,

Whilst I whome fortune of such tryumph bars Vnlookt for ioy in that I honour most; Great Princes fauorites their faire leaues spread, But as the Marygold at the suns eye, And in them-selues their pride lies buried, For at a frowne they in their glory die. The painefull warrier famosed for worth, After a thousand victories once foild, Is from the booke of honour rased quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toild:    Then happy I that loue and am beloued    Where I may not remoue,nor be remoued. 26

L Ord of my loue,to whome in vassalage Thy merrit hath my dutie strongly knit;

To thee I send this written ambassage To witnesse duty, not to shew my wit. Duty so great,which wit so poore as mine May make seeme bare,in wanting words to shew it; But that I hope some good conceipt of thine In thy soules thought(all naked) will bestow it: Til whatsoeuer star that guides my mouing, Points on me gratiously with faire aspect, And puts apparrell on my tottered louing,

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