I now think love is rather deaf， than blind，

    For else it could not be，

    That she，

    Whom I adore¹ so much， should so slight me，

    And cast my love behind：

    I'm sure my language was as sweet，

    And every close did meet

    In sentence of as subtle² feet

    As hath the youngest he，

    That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.

    Oh， but my conscious fears，

    That fly my thoughts between，

    Tell me that she hath seen

    My hundreds of gray hairs，

    Told seven and forty years，

    Read so much waist， as she cannot embrace

    My mountain belly and my rock face，

    As all these， through her eyes， have stopt her ears