"While, with slow eyes, we these survey, And on each pleasant footstep stay, We opportunely may relate The progress of this house's fate. A nunnery first gave it birth, (For virgin buildings oft brought forth) And all that neighbour-ruin shows The quarries whence this dwelling rose. Near to this gloomy cloister's gates, There dwelt the blooming virgin Thwaites, Fair beyond measure, and an heir, Which might deformity make fair; And oft she spent the summer's suns Discoursing with the subtle Nuns, Whence, in these words, one to her weav'd, As 'twere by chance, thoughts long conceiv'd: 'Within this holy leisure, we Live innocently, as you see. These walls restrain the world without, But hedge our liberty about; These bars inclose that wilder den Of those wild creatures, called men, The cloister outward shuts its gates, And, from us, locks on them the grates. Here we, in shining armour white, Like virgin amazons do fight, And our chaste lamps we hourly trim, Lest the great Bridegroom find them dim. Our orient breaths perfumed are With incense of incessant prayer; And holy-water of our tears Most strangely our complexion clears; Not tears of grief, but such as those With which calm pleasure overflows; Or pity, when we look on you That live without this happy vow. How should we grieve that must be seen Each one a spouse, and each a queen, And can in heaven hence behold Our brighter robes and crowns of gold! When we have prayed all our beads, Some one the holy Legend reads, While all the rest with needles paint The face and graces of the Saint; Some of your features, as we sewed, Through every shrine should be bestowed, And in one beauty we would take Enough a thousand Saints to make. And (for I dare not quench the fire That me does for your good inspire) 'Twere sacrilege a man to admit To holy things for heaven fit. I see the angels in a crown On you the lilies showering down; And round about you glory breaks, That something more than human speaks. All beauty when at such a height, Is so already consecrate. Fairfax I know, and long ere this Have marked the youth, and what he is; But can he such a rival seem, For whom you heaven should disesteem? Ah, no! and 'twould more honour prove He your devoto were than Love. Here live beloved and obeyed, Each one your sister, each your maid, And, if our rule seem strictly penned, The rule itself to you shall bend. Our Abbess, too, now far in age, Doth your succession near presage. How soft the yoke on us would lie, Might such fair hands as yours it tie! Your voice, the sweetest of the choir, Shall draw heaven nearer, raise us higher, And your example, if our head, Will soon us to perfection lead.