An Elegy

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.

A virtue, like allay, so gone

   Throughout your form, as, though that move

   And draw and conquer all men’s love,

This sùbjects you to love of one.

Wherein you triumph yet; because

   ’Tis of yourself, and that you use

   The noblest freedom, not to choose

Against or faith or honor’s laws.

But who should less expect from you,

   In whom alone Love lives again?

   By whom he is restored to men,

And kept, and bred, and brought up true.

His falling temples you have reared,

   The withered garlands ta’en away;

   His altars kept from the decay

That envy wished, and nature feared;

And on them burn so chaste a flame,

   With so much loyalties’ expense,

   As Love, t’ acquit such excellence,

Is gone himself into your name.

And you are he; the deity

   To whom all lovers are designed

   That would their better objects find;

Among which faithful troop am I.

Who, as an offspring at your shrine,

   Have sung this hymn, and here entreat

   One spark of your diviner heat

To light upon a love of mine.

Which, if it kindle not, but scant

   Appear, and that to shortest view,

   Yet give me leave t’ adore in you

What I in her am grieved to want.