All what you are still one, his own to find,
You that are born to be the world's eye,
What were it else, but to make each thing blind,
And to the sun with waxen wings to fly?

No, no, such force with my small force to try
Is not my skill, nor reach of mortal mind.
Call me but yours, my title is most high;
Hold me most yours, then my long suit is signed.

You none can claim but you yourself by right,
For you do pass yourself, in virtue's might.
So both are yours: I, bound with gaged heart;
You only yours, too far beyond desert.