text: 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 mens love,
  This subjects 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 honors 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 taen 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.