Poetry Archives

To the tune of “Wilhelmus van Nassau,” &c.


Who hath his fancy pleasèd,
  With fruits of happy sight,
Let here his eyes be raisèd
  On Nature’s sweetest light;
A light which doth dissever,
  And yet unite the eyes;
A light which, dying, never
  Is cause the looker dies.

She never dies, but lasteth
  In life of lover’s heart;
He ever dies that wasteth
  In love his chiefest part.
Thus is her life still guarded,
  In never dying faith;
Thus is his death rewarded,
  Since she lives in his death.

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.

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.

But who hath fancies pleasèd,
  With fruits of happy sight,
Let here his eyes be raisèd
  On Nature’s sweetest light.