Madrigal 11. Thine Eyes, mine heaven! (which harbour lovely rest

Barnabe Barnes (1569?–1609)

THINE Eyes, mine heaven! (which harbour lovely rest,

And with their beams all creatures cheer)

Stole from mine eyes their clear;

And made mine eyes dim mirrolds of unrest.

And from her lily Forehead, smooth and plain,

My front, his withered furrows took;

And through her grace, his grace forsook.

From soft Cheeks, rosy red,

My cheeks their leanness, and this pallid stain.

The Golden Pen of Nature’s book,

(For her Tongue, that task undertook!)

Which to the Graces’ Secretory led,

And sweetest Muses, with sweet music fed,

Inforced my Muse, in tragic tunes to sing:

But from her heart’s hard frozen string,

Mine heart his tenderness and heat possest.