Perplexed, perplexed sore am I!
Thine eyes fair love like Phoebus' brightest beams
Doth set my heart on fire and daze my sight.
Yet do I live by virtue of those beams,
For when thy face is hid comes fearful night,
And I am like to die.
Then since my eyes cannot endure so heav'nly spark,
Sweet grant that I may still feel out my love by dark.

So shall I, so shall I joyful be.
Each thing on earth that liveth by the sun
Would die if he in glory still appear.
Then let some clouds of pity overrun
That glorious face, that I with lively cheer
May stand up before thee;
Or since my eyes cannot endure so heav'nly spark,
Sweet grant that I may still feel out my love by dark.