An Elegy

THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise,And yours, of whom I sing, be suchAs not the world can praise too much,Yet is ’t your virtue now I raise.

A virtue, like allay, so goneThroughout 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 yourself, and that you useThe noblest freedom, not to chooseAgainst or faith, or honour’s laws.

But who could 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 decayThat envy wished, and nature feared;

And on them burns so chaste a flame,With so much loyalty’s expense,As Love, t’ acquit such excellence,Is gone himself into your name.

And you are he: the deityTo whom all lovers are designed,That would their better objects find;Among which faithful troop am I;

Who, as an offering at your shrine,Have sung this hymn, and here entreatOne spark of your diviner heatTo light upon a love of mine;

Which, if it kindle not, but scantAppear, and that to shortest view,Yet give me leave t’ adore in youWhat I, in her, am grieved to want.