From “Fair Virtue”
SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die, because a woman ’s Fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care,
’Cause another’s rosy are?
Be She fairer than the Day,
Or the flowery meads in May!
  If She be not so to me,
  What care...

Cyriack, this three years’ day, these eyes, though clear,
  To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
  Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot:
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or stars, throughout the year,
  Or man or woman, yet...