As an inperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strenght’s abundance weakens his own heart:
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,
And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay
O’ ercharg’d whit burthen of mine own love’s might.
O, let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presages of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
More then that tongue that more hath more express’d.
O’ learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.