The Poet-Wooer

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 suit behind

I'm sure my language to her was as sweet

And ev'ry close did meet

In sentence of as subtle feet

As hath the youngest He

That sits in shadows 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

And all these, through her eyes

Have stopt her ears