I now think love is rather deaf, than blind, <br /> For else it could not be, <br /> That she, <br />Whom I adore so much, should so slight me, <br /> And cast my love behind: <br />I'm sure my language was as sweet, <br /> And every close did meet <br /> In sentence of as subtle feet <br /> As hath the youngest he, <br /> That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree. <br /> <br />Oh, but my conscious fears, <br /> That fly my thoughts between, <br /> Tell me that she hath seen <br /> My hundreds of gray hairs, <br /> Told seven and forty years, <br /> Read so much waist, as she cannot embrace <br /> My mountain belly and my rock face, <br />As all these, through her eyes, have stopt her ears.<br /><br />Ben Jonson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-picture-left-in-scotland/
