But he hath eyes so round and bright,
   As make away my doubt,
Where Love may all his torches light,
   Though hate had put them out.
   But then, t’ increase my fears,
What Nymph soe’er, his voice but hears,
Will be my rival, though she have but ears.

I’ll tell no more, and yet I love,
   And he loves me. Yet no
One unbecoming thought doth move
   From either heart, I know;
   But so exempt from blame
As it would be to each a fame,
If love, or fear, would let me tell his name.

199                           The Triumph

SEE the Chariot at hand here of Love,
   Wherein my Lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
   And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
            Unto her beauty;
And enamour’d do wish, so they might
            But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Thorough swords, thorough seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light
   All that Love’s world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
   As Love’s star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead’s smoother
            Than words that soothe her;
And from her arch’d brows such a grace
            Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good, of the elements’ strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow
   Before rude hands have touch’d it?
Have you mark’d but the fall of the snow
   Before the soil hath smutch’d it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver,
            Or swan’s down ever?
Or have smelt o’ the bud o’ the brier,
            Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!

200                          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 allay¹ 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!