THANKS sweetest friend, who deckest me In shewing me mine own Deformitie. Alas, the eys ev'n of my Minde Though plac'd within, to things within are blinde; And, like those of my Body, on Externals spend their gazing selvs alone. Ay me, who thus become Abroad quicksighted, but stark blinde at home. 2 My faithfull eyes are those whereby The darkest bottom of my self I spy. What fools were Poets, who could finde No way but to conclude that Love is blinde! He who himself would right discover, The eys must borrow of a trusty Lover; Eys whence indeed those darts Of piercing fire flash forth which serch through hearts. 3 Dear Spie of me, thanks thanks again For this discovery; now me thinks 'tis plain How ougly I did muffled go In Melancholies veil. I know no Foe Whom more I hate than that black Witch, Yet much I love her too: Alas in such A snarled maze I move That heer I love my hate, & hate my love. 4 Inestimable Sentinel, Upon thy loving guard oh stand thou still: Give the alarm whenever thou These clowds discoverest gathering on my brow; And help me in the charge, that I May conquer by thy cheerfull bravery. This way, my better Heart, Be thou my Second, though my Self thou art. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AD PATRIAM by CLINTON SCOLLARD ODE TO THE WEST WIND by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY SONG TOURNAMENT: NEW STYLE by LOUIS UNTERMEYER AS NIGHT COMES by CHARLES G. ADAMS BOTHWELL: PART 3 by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN SONNET by MATILDA BARBARA BETHAM-EDWARDS |