Fayre eyes, the myrrour of my mazed hart,
    what wondrous vertue is contaynd in you
    the which both lyfe and death forth from you dart
    into the object of your mighty view?
For when ye mildly looke with lovely hew,
    then is my soule with life and love inspired:
    but when ye lowre, or looke on me askew
    then doe I die, as one with lightning fyred.
But since that lyfe is more then death desyred,
    looke euer lovely, as becomes you best,
    that your bright beams of my weak eies admyred,
    may kindle living fire within my brest.
Such life should be the honor of your light,
    such death the sad ensample of your might.