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.
 O, but my conscious fears,
 That fly my thoughts between,
 Tell me that she hath seen
 My hundred of gray hairs,
 Told seven and forty years
 Read so much waste, as she cannot embrace
 My mountain belly and my rocky face;
 And all these through her eyes have stopp'd her ears.