I now think Love is rather deaf than blind,
For else it could not be
That she,
Whom I adore so much, should so slight me
And cast my love behind;
I'm sure my language to her was as sweet,
And every close did meet
In sentence, of as subtle feet,
As hath the youngest he,
That sits in Shadow of Apollo's tree.
Oh, but my conscience fears,
That fly my thoughts between,
Tell me that she hath seen
My hundreds of grey hairs,
Told seven and forty years,
Read so much waist, as she cannot embrace
My mountain belly, and my rocky face,
And all these through her eyes, have stopped her ears.