In truth, O Love, with what a boyish kind Thou dost proceed in thy most serious ways: That when the heaven to thee his best displays Yet of that best thou leav'st the best behind For like a child, that some fair book doth find, With gilded leaves or coloured vellum plays, Or at the most, on some fine picture stays, But never heeds the fruit of writer's mind: So when thou saw'st, in nature's cabinet, Stella, thou straight look'st babies in her eyes, In her cheek's pit thou did'st thy pit-fold set, And in her breast bo-peep or couching lies, Playing and shining in each outward part: But, fool, seek'st not to get into her heart. |