And then she reprimands her mangling eye,
Tired with all these, for restful death, I cry.
To keep thy sharp woes waking, wretched I,
Look, how a bright star shooteth from the sky.
‘With this, I did begin to start and cry,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie’.
So is her face illumined with her eye,
To wail his death who lives and must not die.
O, that forced thunder from his heart did fly,
The scornful mark of every open eye.
Look, how a bright star shooteth from the sky,
Who, if it winks, shall thereon fall and dies.
Cheered and cheque’d even by the self-same sky,
Wildly determining which way to fly.
My heart shall never countermand mine eye,
But they whose guilt within their bosoms lies.
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,
Cheered and even by the self-same sky.
But eagles gazed upon with every eye,
Like misty vapors when they blot the sky.
Ah! If thou issueless shalt hap to die,
‘O Jove,’ quoth she, ‘how much a fool was I
For there can live no hatred in thine eye?’,
Graze on my lips; and if those hills are dry.
Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie,
And here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye.
Wagg’d up and down, and from his lips did fly,
And, therefore, now I need not fear to die.
Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high,
The scornful mark of every open eye.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die.
Poetry
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