Thou with thy lookes on whom I loke full ofte,
And find there in great cause of deepe delight:
Thy face is fayre, thy skin is smoth and softe,
Thy lippes are sweet, thine eyes are cleere and bright,
And every part seemes pleasant in my sight.
Yet wote thou well, those lokes have wrought my wo,
Bicause I love to looke upon them so.
For first those lookes allurd mine eye to loke,
And strayght mine eye stird up my hart to love:
And cruell love with deepe deceitfull hooke,
Chokt up my mind whom fancie cannot move,
Nor hope releeve, nor other helpe behove:
But still to loke, and though I loke to much,
Needes must I loke bicause I see none such.
Thus in thy lookes my love and life have hold,
And with such life my death drawes on a pace:
And for such death no medcine can be told,
But loking still upon thy lovely face,
Wherin are painted pitie, peace, and grace,
Then though thy lokes should cause me for to dye,
Needes must I looke, bicause I live therby.
Since then thy lookes my lyfe have so in thrall,
As I can like none other lookes but thine:
Lo here I yeelde my lyfe, my love, and all
Into thy hands, and all things else resigne,
But libertie to gaze upon thyne eyen.
Which when I doe, then think it were thy part,
To looke again, and linke with me in hart.