XXIV. No sooner do I earnest fix mine eyes

Robert Tofte (1561–1620)

NO sooner do I earnest fix mine eyes

On my fair Sun: but that I her perceive

To vanish like a cloud, in darkest wise;

As if, eclipsed, her light it did bereave.

I know not, If She’s troubled thus because

She doth disdain I should behold her so:

Or if for fear, this shadow to her draws;

Lest me her beams should hurt, which glistering show.

Say then, sweet LOVE, for thou know’st best, if still

I shall behold her; or no more, thou will.