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Fayre eyes,
the myrrour of my mazed hart,
what wondrous vertue
is contaynd in you
the which both lyfe and death
forth fro[m] you dart
into the obiect of your mighty
view?
For when ye mildly looke with louely hew,
then is my soule with life and loue inspired:
but
when ye lowre, or looke on me askew
then doe I die,
as one with lightning fyred.
But since that lyfe is
more then death desyred,
looke euer louely, as
becomes you best,
that your bright beams of my weak
eies admyred,
may kindle liuing fire within my brest.
Such life should be the honor of your light,
such death the sad ensample of your might.
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