Songs for the Lute, Viol and Voice

   Let not Chloris think, because
 She has envassalled me,
   That her beauty can give laws
 To others that are free.
   I was made to be the prey
   And booty of her eyes;
   In my bosom she may say
 Her greatest kingdom lies.
 
 Though others may her brow adore,
 Yet more must I, that therein see far more
   Than any others' eyes have power to see.
   She is to me
   More than to any others she can be.
 I can discern more secret notes,
 That in the margin of her cheeks love quotes,
   Than any else besides have art to read.
   No looks proceed
   From those fair eyes but to me wonder breed. 
 O then why
 Should she fly
   From him to whom her sight
   Doth add so much above her might?
 Why should not she
 Still joy to reign in me?

Thou pretty bird, how do I see
Thy silly state and mine agree,
For thou a prisoner art
So is my heart.
Thou sing'st to her, and so do I address
My music to her ear that's merciless.
But herein doth the difference lie,
That thou art grac'd, so am not I;
Thou singing liv'st,
And I must singing die.

Time, cruel Time, canst thou subdue that brow
That conquers all but thee, and thee too stays,
As if she were exempt from scythe or bow,
From love and years, unsubject to decays?
  Or art thou grown in league with those fair eyes,
That they might aid thee to consume our days?
Or doest thou love her for her cruelties,
Being merciless like thee that no man weighs?
  Then do so still, although she makes so 'steem
Of days nor years, but lets them run in vain.
Hold still thy swift-winged hours, that wond'ring seem
To gaze on her, even to turn back again;
  And do so still, although she nothing cares.
Do as I do, love her although unkind.
Hold still. Yet, O I fear, at unawares
Thou wilt beguile her though thou seem'st so kind.