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Oh eyes, which do the spheres of beauty move, 
Whose beams be joys, whose joys all virtues be, 
Who, while they make Love conquer, conquer love; 
The schools where Venus hath learn'd chastity; 
  O eyes, whose humble looks most glorious prove, 
Only loved tyrants, just in cruelty; 
Do not, O do not, from poor me remove; 
Keep still my zenith, ever shine on me. 
   For though I never see them, but straight ways 
My life forgets to nourish languish'd sprites; 
Yet still on me, O eyes, dart down your rays; 
And if from majesty of sacred lights, 
   Oppressing mortal sense, my death proceed, 
   Wracks triumphs be, which love (high set) doth breed.