Whilst yet mine eyes do surfeit with delight, My woful heart imprisoned in my breast, Wisheth to be transformèd to my sight, That it like those by looking might be blest. But whilst mine eyes thus greedily do gaze, Finding their objects over-soon depart, These now the other's happiness do praise, Wishing themselves that they had been my heart, That eyes were heart, or that the heart were eyes, As covetous the other's use to have. But finding nature their request denies, This to each other mutually they crave; That since the one cannot the other be, That eyes could think of that my heart could see.
Marvel not, love, though I thy power admire, Ravished a world beyond the farthest thought, And knowing more than ever hath been taught, That I am only starved in my desire. Marvel not, love, though I thy power admire, Aiming at things exceeding all perfection, To wisdom's self to minister direction, That I am only starved in my desire. Marvel not, love, though I thy power admire, Though my conceit I further seem to bend Than possibly invention can extend, And yet am only starved in my desire. If thou wilt wonder, here's the wonder, love, That this to me doth yet no wonder prove.
Some misbelieving and profane in love, When I do speak of miracles by thee, May say that thou art flatterèd by me, Who only write my skill in verse to prove See miracles, ye unbelieving, see! A dumb-born Muse made to express the mind, A cripple hand to write, yet lame by kind, One by thy name, the other touching thee. Blind were mine eyes, till they were seen of thine; And mine ears deaf by thy fame healèd be; My vices cured by virtues sprung from thee; My hopes revived which long in grave had lien. All unclean thoughts, foul spirits, cast out in me, Only by virtue that proceeds from thee.
Thou purblind boy, since thou hast been so slack To wound her heart whose eyes have wounded me And suffered her to glory in my wrack, Thus to my aid I lastly conjure thee! By hellish Styx, by which the Thund'rer swears, By thy fair mother's unavoided power, By Hecate's names, by Proserpine's sad tears, When she was wrapt to the infernal bower! By thine own lovèd Psyche, by the fires Spent on thine altars flaming up to heaven, By all true lovers' sighs, vows, and desires, By all the wounds that ever thou hast given; I conjure thee by all that I have named, To make her love, or, Cupid, be thou damned!