Such as hee binds the world's great parts withall: Whose wonderous frame by there convention stands, But beinge disbanded would to ruine fall.[253] [Footnote 250: Written 'x'ested.] [Footnote 251: Miswritten 'There is a tale then.' G.] [Footnote 252: Miswritten 'ye.' G.] [Footnote 253: Two preceding are apparently in the same handwriting with those before them. G.] [A FRAGMENT OF A LOVE ELEGIE.] But those impressions by this forme are staynde, and blotted out as if they had not beene: And yet if nothing else in mynde I beare, makes me not lesse learn[è]d then before: For that in her as in a merrour cleare, I see and learne far better things and more. The students of the world and Natur's booke, Beauty and order in the world doe noate; She is my little world; on her I looke, and doe in her the same p'fections quoate: For in her eyes the beames of beauty shine, and in her sweete behaviour and her grace, Order apears, and comlines divine, Befitting every tyme and every place. 3. Vnto that sparkling wit, that spirit of fire, That pointed diomond looke, that ægle's eye Whose lyghtning makes audacity retire and yet drawes on respectiue modesty, With wings of feare and loue, my spirit doth fly and doth therein a flame of fire resemble; Which, when it burnes most bright and mounts most high, then doth it waver most and most doth tremble. O that my thoughts were words, or could I speake The tongue of Angells, to expresse my mynde: For mortall speach is far too faint and weeke to utter passion of so high a kynde. You have a beauty of such life and light As it hath power all wandring eyes to stay: To move dombe tongues to speake, lame hands to write, Stayde thoughts to run, hard harts to melt a way: Yet painters' can of this draw every line And every wittles person that hath eyes, Can se[e] and judg and sweare it is divine: For in these outwarde formes all fooles are wise. But that which my admireing spirit doth veiw, I[n] thought whereof it would for ever dwell, Eie never saw, the pensill never drew, Pen neuer coulde describe, tongue never tell: It is the invisible beauty of your mynde, Your cleare immagination, lively witt, So tund, so temp'rd, of such heavenly kind, As all mens spirits ar charmd and rapt with it. This life within begetts your lively looke, As fier doth make all metalls looke like fier; Or your quicke soule by choise this body tooke, As angells w^{th} bright formes themselves attire. O that my brest might ope, and hart might cleave That so you might my silent wondring veiw: O that you might my soreing spirit p'ceive, How still with trembling wings it waites on you. Then should you se[e] of thoughts an endles chaine, Whose links are[254] vertues, and yor vertues bee;