I now think Love is rather deaf than blind, br For else it could not be br That she, br Whom I adore so much, should so slight me br And cast my love behind. br I'm sure my language to her was as sweet, br And every close did meet br In sentence of as subtle feet, br As hath the youngest He br That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree. br O, but my conscious fears, br That fly my thoughts between, br Tell me that she hath seen br My hundred of gray hairs, br Told seven and forty years br Read so much waste, as she cannot embrace br My mountain belly and my rocky face; br And all these through her eyes have stopp'd her ears.