SONNET. LXXVIII. Lackyng my loue I go from place to place, lyke a young fawne that late hath lost the hynd: and seeke each where, where last I sawe her face, whose ymage yet I carry fresh in mynd. I seeke the fields with her late footing synd, I seeke her bowre with her late presence deckt, yet nor in field nor bowre I her can fynd: yet field and bowre are full of her aspect. But when myne eyes I thereunto direct, they ydly back returne to me agayne, and when I hope to see theyr trew obiect, I fynd my selfe but fed with fancies vayne. Ceasse then myne eyes, to seeke her selfe to see, and let my thoughts behold her selfe in mee.