Sonnet 41

O Eyes, which doe the Spheres of beautie moue,
Whose beames all ioyes, whose ioyes all vertues be:
Who while they make Loue conquer, conquer Loue,
The Schooles where Venus hath learnd Chastitie;
O eyes, where humble lookes most glorious proue,
Onely loue tasting of your crueltie.
Doe not, doe not, from me, poore me, remoue,
Keepe still my Zenith, euer shine on me;
For thoughts eye neuer sees them, but straight waies
My life forgets to nourish languisht sprights:
Yet still on me (ô eyes) dart downe your rayes;
And if from Maiestie of sacred Lights
Oppressing mortall sence, my death proceede:
Wreckes tryumphs best, which Loue hie set doth breed.