Lackyng my love I go from place to place,
    lyke a young fawne that late hath lost the hynd:
    and seeke each where, where last I sawe her face,
    whose ymage yet I carry fresh in mynd.
I seeke the fields with her late footing synd,
    I seeke her bowre with her late presence deckt,
    yet nor in field nor bowre I her can fynd:
    yet field and bowre are full of her aspect,
But when myne eyes I thereunto direct,
    they ydly back returne to me agayne,
    and when I hope to see theyr trew object,
    I fynd my selfe but fed with fancies vayne.
Ceasse then myne eyes, to seeke her selfe to see,
    and let my thoughts behold her selfe in mee.