I fixe mine eye on thine, and there Pitty my picture burning in thine eye, My picture drown’d in a transparent teare, When I looke lower I espie; Hasst thou the wicked skill By pictures made and mard, to kill, How many wayes mightst thou performe thy will?
But now I have drunke thy sweet salt teares, And though thou poure more I’ll depart; My picture vanish’d, vanish feares, That I can be endamag’d by that art; Though thou retaine of mee One picture more, yet that will bee, Being in thine owne heart, from all malice free.