WHO hath his fancy pleased   With fruits of happy sight, Let here his eyes be raised   On Nature's sweetest light; A light which doth dissever   And yet unite the eyes, A light which, dying never,   Is cause the looker dies.

She never dies, but lasteth   In life of lover's heart; He ever dies that wasteth   In love his chiefest part: Thus is her life still guarded   In never-dying faith; Thus is his death rewarded,   Since she lives in his death.

Look then, and die! The pleasure   Doth answer well the pain: Small loss of mortal treasure,   Who may immortal gain! Immortal be her graces,   Immortal is her mind; They, fit for heavenly places—   This, heaven in it doth bind.

But eyes these beauties see not,   Nor sense that grace descries; Yet eyes deprived be not   From sight of her fair eyes— Which, as of inward glory   They are the outward seal, So may they live still sorry,   Which die not in that weal.

But who hath fancies pleased   With fruits of happy sight, Let here his eyes be raised   On Nature's sweetest light!