text: Go, dumb-born book,
  Tell her that sang me once that song of Lawes:
  Hadst thou but song
  As thou hast subjects known,
  Then were there cause in thee that should condone
  Even my faults that heavy upon me lie
  And build her glories their longevity.
  
  Tell her that sheds
  Such treasure in the air,
  Recking naught else but that her graces give
  Life to the moment,
  I would bid them live
  As roses might, in magic amber laid,
  Red overwrought with orange and all made
  One substance and one colour
  Braving time.
  
  Tell her that goes
  With song upon her lips
  But sings not out the song, nor knows
  The maker of it, some other mouth,
  May be as fair as hers,
  Might, in new ages, gain her worshippers,
  When our two dusts with Wallers shall be laid,
  Siftings on siftings in oblivion,
  Till change hath broken down
  All things save Beauty alone.