And yet (in this t’ express ourselves more clear) We do not number here Such spirits as are only continent, Because lust’s means are spent; Or those who doubt the common mouth of fame, And for their place and name, Cannot so safely sin: their chastity Is mere necessity; Nor mean we those whom vows and conscience Have filled with abstinence: Though we acknowledge who can so abstain, Makes a most blessèd gain; He that for love of goodness hateth ill, Is more crown-worthy still Than he, which for sin’s penalty forbears: His heart sins, though he fears. But we propose a person like our Dove, Graced with a Phœnix’ love; A beauty of that clear and sparkling light, Would make a day of night, And turn the blackest sorrows to bright joys: Whose odorous breath destroys All taste of bitterness, and makes the air As sweet as she is fair. A body so harmoniously composed, As if natùre disclosed All her best symmetry in that one feature! O, so divine a creature Who could be false to? chiefly, when he knows How only she bestows The wealthy treasure of her love on him; Making his fortunes swim In the full flood of her admired perfection? What savage, brute affection, Would not be fearful to offend a dame Of this excelling frame? Much more a noble, and right generous mind, To virtuous moods inclined, That knows the weight of guilt: he will refrain From thoughts of such a strain, And to his sense object this sentence ever, “Man may securely sin, but safely never.” 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 is ’t your virtue now I raise. A virtue, like allay, 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 yourself, and that you use The noblest freedom, not to choose Against or faith, or honour’s laws. But who could 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 ta’en away; His altars kept from the decay That envy wished, and nature feared; And on them burns so chaste a flame, With so much loyalty’s 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 offering at your shrine, Have sung this hymn, and here entreat One spark of your diviner heat To light upon a love of mine;