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Poem	MY hungry eyes through greedy couetize, still to behold the obiect of their paine: with no contentment can themselues suffize, but hauing pine and hauing not complaine. For lacking it they cannot lyfe sustayne, and hauing it they gaze on it the more: in their amazement lyke Narcissus vaine whose eyes him staru'd: so plenty makes me poore Yet are mine eyes so filled with the store of that faire sight, that nothing else they brooke, but lothe the things which they did like before, and can no more endure on them to looke. All this worlds glory seemeth vayne to me, and all their showes but shadowes sauing she.
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