My Picture Left in Scotland

I now think Love is rather deaf than blind,

For else it could not be

That she,

Whom I adore so much, should so slight me

And cast my love behind.

I'm sure my language to her was as sweet,

And every close did meet

In sentence of as subtle feet,

As hath the youngest He

That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.

O, but my conscious fears,

That fly my thoughts between,

Tell me that she hath seen

My hundred of gray hairs,

Told seven and forty years

Read so much waste, as she cannot embrace

My mountain belly and my rocky face;

And all these through her eyes have stopp'd her ears.