Morpheus , the lively son of deadly sleep,
Witness of life to them that living die,
A prophet oft, and oft an history,
A poet eke, as humours fly or creep;
Since thou in me so sure a power dost keep,
That never I with closed-up sense do lie
But by thy work my Stella I descry,
Teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weep,
Vouchsafe of all acquaintance this to tell:
Whence hast thou ivory, rubies, pearl and gold
To show her skin, lips, teeth and head so well?
‘Fool,’ answers he, ‘no Ind's such treasures hold,
But from thy heart, while my sire charmeth thee,
Sweet Stella 's image I do steal to me.’