Thomas Lodge (1558–1625)

TURN I my looks unto the skies,

Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes;

If so I gaze upon the ground,

Love then in every flower is found;

Search I the shade to fly my pain,

He meets me in the shade again;

Wend I to walk in secret grove,

Ev’n there I meet with sacred Love:

If so I bain me in the spring,

Ev’n on the bank I hear him sing;

If so I meditate alone,

He will be partner of my moan;

If so I mourn, he weeps with me,

And where I am there he will be.