On her fair Eyes

Look not upon me with those lovely Eyes,
From whom there flies
So many a dart
To wound a heart.
That still in vain to thee for mercy cries.
Yet dies, whether thou grantest, or denies.

Of thy coy looks, know, I do not complain,
Nor of disdain :
Those, sudden, like
The lightning strike,
And kill me without any ling'ring pain,
And slain so once, I cannot die again.

But O, thy sweet looks from my eyes conceal,
Which so oft steal
My soul from me.
And bring to thee
A wounded heart, which though it do reveal
The hurts thou giv'st it, yet thou canst not heal.

Upon those sweets I surfeit still, yet I,
Wretch ! cannot die :
But am reviv'd,
And made long liv'd
By often dying, since thy gracious eye,
Like heaven, makes not a death, but ecstasy.

Then in the heaven of that beauteous face,
Since thou dost place
A martyr'd heart.
Whose bliss thou art.
Since thou hast ta'en the soul, this favour do,
Into thy bosom take the body too.