As to her eyes, I think thou shalt have reason
Setting the azure of them far above
God's blue of heaven; yea, who shall know thy treason
But I who teach it thee and She my love?
And therefore, fear thou nowise to express,
Touching her hair, how much its every tress
Doth shine above all gold that the sun yields
And the fair colour of the harvest fields:
But scarce shalt thou be slow to praise, I guess,
Soon as thou know'st what spell her beauty wields.
And, if so be she cease that she is doing,
And give thee welcome for thy verses' sake,
Do thou with some most tender sort of wooing
Engage her hand, and cause it to forsake
Its silken task or pastime on the lute;
For of its beauty thou shouldst not be mute,
But celebrate it soon in such a strain
Thenceforward it shall be no longer fain
To do its lightest toil: so for thy suit
My Lady's whole attendance thou shalt gain.
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