For That He Looked Not upon Her
YOU must not wonder, though you think it strange, To see me hold my louring head so low; And that mine eyes take no delight to range About the gleams which on your face do grow. The mouse which once hath broken out of trap, Is seldom enticed with the trustless bait, But lies aloof for fear of more mishap, And feedeth still in doubt of deep deceit. The scorched fly, which once hath 'scaped the flame, Will hardly come again to play with fire: Whereby I learn that grievous is the game Which follows fancy dazzled by desire: So that I wink or else hold down my head, Because your blazing eyes my bale have bred.
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