O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head
Which have no correspondence with true sight!
Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled
That censures falsely what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote
Love's eye is not so true as all men's 'No.'
How can it? O, how can Love's eye be true
That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?
No marvel then, though I mistake my view;
The sun itself sees not till heaven clears
O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle hour;
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st
Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st
If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack
As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:
Her audit (though delay'd) answered must be
And her quietus is to render thee