Were every thought an eye,
And all those eyes could see,
Her subtle wile
their sights would beguile,
And mock their jealousy.

Her fires do inward burn,
They make no outward show,
And her delights amid the dark shades,
Which none discover grow.

Desire lives in her heart,
Diana in her eyes.
'Twere vain to wish women true, 'tis well,
If they prove wise.

The flow'rs growth is unseen,
Yet every day it grows.
So where her fancy is set it thrives,
But how none knows.

Such a love deserves more grace
Than a truer heart that hath no conceit,
To make use both of time and place,
When a wit hath need of all his sleight.