Certes, My Lady Sweet, Your Blessed Eyes-- It Cannot Be But That They Are My Sun; As Strong They Smite Me As He Smites Upon The Man Whose Way O'Er Libyan Desert Lies, The While A Vapour Hot Doth Me Surprise From That Side Springing Where My Pain Doth Won: Perchance Accustomed Lovers--I Am None And Know Not--In Their Speech Call Such Things Sighs: A Part Shut In, Sore Vexed, Itself Conceals, And Shakes My Bosom; Part, Undisciplined, Breaks Forth, And All Around To Ice Congeals; But That Which To Mine Eyes The Way Doth Find, Makes All My Nights In Silent Showers Abound, Until My Dawn[1] Returns, With Roses Crowned.