To you, Faire Hands, (Hands, (Hands of my dreadest Lord,
Wherewith he feeds himself with sweet delight)
To You my Rimes runne of their owne accord,
Sith in your Hands remaines some hidden might,
That, Like the Load-stoane, drawes (as with a Cord)
Myne Iron Numbers to your Lilly White:
They, to the North-point, point: O then affoorde
To take them to It, for, aye me, my sight
Cannot behold Light, louingly abhor'd
Sith for mine Eyes such Sunne-Beames are too bright:
Yet, lest at my presumption Scorne should boorde,
Detaine them (if you please) to do me right:
But, if, when you haue waide them, weight they be,
Or giue, or take them, all is one to mee.