The quarrel that I have requires no arms

But these of mine: and these shall meet my foe

In a deep march of penetrable groans;

My eyes shall be my arrows, and my sighs

Shall serve me as the vantage of the wind,

To whirl away my sweetest artillery. (70)

Ah, but, alas, she wins the sun of me,

For that is she herself, and thence it comes

That poets term the wanton warrior blind;

But love hath eyes as judgement to his steps,

Till too much loved glory dazzles them.