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 subjects you to love of one.

Wherein you triumph yet—because   'Tis of your flesh, and that you use   The noblest freedom, not to choose Against or faith or honour'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 rear'd,   The wither'd garlands ta'en away;   His altars kept from that decay That envy wish'd, and nature fear'd:

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.

And you are he—the deity   To whom all lovers are design'd   That would their better objects find; Among which faithful troop am I—

Who as an off'ring 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 to adore in you What I in her am grieved to want!

allay] alloy.