Wistful eye myself be owned,
Though wish’d for else be myne,
To close myne eye for me be clon’d,
My skin to be like stein.

A Fondness found in cobalt eye,
The grin to hide a laugh,
White linen sheets for myne too shy,
A tear that needs a rhaphe.

The poet that uses a word for a dream,
A fool who wants nothing than that what it seeme.