The poem
I fix mine eye on thine, and there Pity my picture burning in thine eye; My picture drowned in a transparent tear, When I look lower I espy. Hadst thou the wicked skill By pictures made and mard, to kill, How many ways mightst thou perform thy will?
But now I have drunk thy sweet salt tears, And though thou pour more I'll depart; My picture vanished, vanish fears That I can be endamaged by that art; Though thou retain of me One picture more, yet that will be, Being in thine own heart, from all malice free.