Soules Ioy, Bend Not Those Morning Starres From Me Where Vertue Is Made Strong By Beauties Might; Where Loue Is Chasteness, Paine Doth Learn Delight, And Humbleness Growes One With Maiesty. Whateuer May Ensue, O Let Me Be Copartner Of The Riches Of That Sight. Let Not Mine Eyes Be Hel-Driu'N From That Light; O Look, O Shine, O Let Me Die, And See. For Though I Oft Myself Of Them Bemone That Through My Heart Their Beamie Darts Be Gone, Whose Cureless Wounds Euen Now Most Freshly Bleed, Yet Since My Death-Wound Is Already Got, Deere Killer, Spare Not Thy Sweete-Cruell Shot: A Kinde Of Grace It Is To Slaye With Speed.