I FIXE mine eye on thine, and there
    Pitty my picture burning in thine eye,
My picture drown'd in a transparent tears,
    When I looke lower I espie;
        Hadst 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.