17.01.2011, 17:42
To Imagination
WHILST yet mine eyes do surfeit with delight,
My woeful heart, imprisoned in my breast,
Wisheth to be transformèd to my sight,
That it, like those, by looking might be blest ;
But whilst my eyes thus greedily do gaze,
Finding their objects over-soon depart,
These now the other's happiness do praise,
Wishing themselves that they had been my heart,
That eyes were heart, or that the heart were eyes,
As covetous the other's use to have ;
But finding Nature their request denies,
This to each other mutually they crave :
That since the one cannot the other be,
That eyes could think, or that my heart could see.
WHILST yet mine eyes do surfeit with delight,
My woeful heart, imprisoned in my breast,
Wisheth to be transformèd to my sight,
That it, like those, by looking might be blest ;
But whilst my eyes thus greedily do gaze,
Finding their objects over-soon depart,
These now the other's happiness do praise,
Wishing themselves that they had been my heart,
That eyes were heart, or that the heart were eyes,
As covetous the other's use to have ;
But finding Nature their request denies,
This to each other mutually they crave :
That since the one cannot the other be,
That eyes could think, or that my heart could see.