I now think love is rather deaf, than blind,
	For else it could not be,
		That she,
Whom I adore so much, should so slight me,
   And cast my love behind:
I'm sure my language was as sweet,
		And every close did meet
		In sentence of as subtle feet
			As hath the youngest he,
	That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.

Oh, but my conscious fears,
	That fly my thoughts between,
	Tell me that she hath seen
   My hundreds of gray hairs,
   Told seven and forty years,
   Read so much waist, as she cannot embrace
   My mountain belly and my rock face,
As all these, through her eyes, have stopt her ears.