Vaile, loue, mine eyes : O hide from me
The plagues that charge the curious minde :
If beauty priuate will not be,
Suffice it yet that she proues kinde.
    Who can vsurp heau'ns light alone?
    Stars were not made to shine on one!

Griefes past recure fooles try to heale,
That greater harmes on lesse inflict,
The pure offend by too much zeale,
Affection should not be too strict.
    He that a true embrace will finde,
    To beauties faults must still be blinde.