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 mens 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 honours 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 reard, The witherd garlands taen away; His altars kept from that decay That envy wishd, and nature feard: And on them burn so chaste a flame, With so much loyaltys expense, As Love to acquit such excellence Is gone himself into your name. And you are he the deity To whom all lovers are designd That would their better objects find; Among which faithful troop am I. Who as an offring 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!