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Lackyng my
loue I go from place to place,
lyke a young fawne
that late hath lost the hynd:
and seeke each where,
where last I sawe her face,
whose ymage yet I carry
fresh in mynd.
I seeke the fields with her late
footing fynd,
I seeke her bowre with her late
presence deckt,
yet nor in field nor bowre I her can
fynd:
yet field and bowre are full of her aspect,
But when myne eyes I thereunto direct,
they ydly back
returne to me agayne,
and when I hope to see theyr
trew obiect,
I fynd my selfe but fed with fancies
vayne.
Ceasse then myne eyes, to seeke her selfe to
see,
and let my thoughts behold her selfe in mee.
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