My Picture Left in Scotland

I now think Love is rather deaf than blind,
    For else it could not be
          That she,
    Whom I adore so much, should so slight me
    And cast my love behind.
    I'm sure my language to her was as sweet,
    And every close did meet
    In sentence of as subtle feet,
    As hath the youngest He
  That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.
  O, but my conscious fears,
  That fly my thoughts between,
  Tell me that she hath seen
  My hundred of gray hairs,
  Told seven and forty years
  Read so much waste, as she cannot embrace
  My mountain belly and my rocky face;
  And all these through her eyes have stopp'd her ears.