Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/158

 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 deprivèd 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!

90. Voices at the Window

Who is it that, this dark night, Underneath my window plaineth? It is one who from thy sight Being, ah, exiled, disdaineth Every other vulgar light.

Why, alas, and are you he? Be not yet those fancies changèd? Dear, when you find change in me, Though from me you be estrangèd, Let my change to ruin be.