I fixe mine eye on thine, and there
Pitty my picture burning in thine eye,
My picture drown’d in a transparent teare,
When I looke lower I espie;
Hasst thou the wicked skill
By pictures made and mard, to kill,
How many wayes mightst thou performe thy will?

But now I have [bad word] thy sweet salt teares,
And though thou poure more I’ll depart;
My picture vanish’d, vanish feares,
That I can be endamag’d by that art;
Though thou retaine of mee
One picture more, yet that will bee,
Being in thine owne heart, from all malice free.

(Cлова: Джон Донн; музыка: Count Ash)