As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who, with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some ﬁerce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,
And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,
O’ercharged with burden of mine own love’s might.
O, let my books be, then, the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast;
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more exprest.
O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love’s ﬁne wit.