Who hath his fancy pleased, With fruits of happy sight, Let here his eyes be raised On Natures sweetest light; A light which doth dissever, And yet unite the eyes; A light which, dying, never Is cause the looker dies.
Look then and die, the pleasure Doth answer well the pain; Small loss of mortal treasure, Who may immortal gain. Immortal be her graces, Immortal is her mind; They, fit for heavenly places, This heaven in it doth bind.
She never diesd, Since she lives in his death.
But who hath fancies pleased, With fruits of happy sight, Let here his eyes be raised On Natures sweetest light.
To the tune of "Wilhelmus van Nassau," c.
But eyes these beauties see not, Nor sense that grace descries; Yet eyes deprived be not From sight of her fair eyes: Which, as of inward glory They are the outward seal, So may they live still sorry, Which die not in that weal.