THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise, | |
And yours of whom I sing be such | |
As not the world can praise too much, | |
Yet ’tis your Virtue now I raise. | |
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A virtue, like allay so gone | 5 |
Throughout your form as, though that move | |
And draw and conquer all men’s love, | |
This subjects you to love of one. | |
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Wherein you triumph yet—because | |
‘Tis of your flesh, and that you use | 10 |
The noblest freedom, not to choose | |
Against or faith or honour’s laws. | |
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But who should less expect from you? | |
In whom alone Love lives again: | |
By whom he is restored to men, | 15 |
And kept and bred and brought up true. | |
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His falling temples you have rear’d, | |
The wither’d garlands ta’en away; | |
His altars kept from that decay | |
That envy wish’d, and nature fear’d: | 20 |
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And on them burn so chaste a flame, | |
With so much loyalty’s expense, | |
As Love to acquit such excellence | |
Is gone himself into your name. | |
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And you are he—the deity | 25 |
To whom all lovers are design’d | |
That would their better objects find; | |
Among which faithful troop am I— | |
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Who as an off’ring at your shrine | |
Have sung this hymn, and here entreat | 30 |
One spark of your diviner heat | |
To light upon a love of mine. | |
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Which if it kindle not, but scant | |
Appear, and that to shortest view; | |
Yet give me leave to adore in you | 35 |
What I in her am grieved to want! | |