Yet farre more faire be those bright Cherubins, Which all with golden wings are overdight, And those eternall burning Seraphins, Which from their faces dart out fierie light; 95 Yet fairer then they both, and much more bright, Be th’Angels and Archangels, which attend On Gods owne person, without rest or end. These thus in faire each other farre excelling, As to the Highest they approach more near, 100 Yet is that Highest farre beyond all telling, Fairer then all the rest which there appeare, Though all their beauties ioyn’d together were; How then can mortall tongue hope to expresse The image of such endlesse perfectnesse? 105 Cease then, my tongue! and lend unto my mynd Leave to bethinke how great that Beautie is, Whose utmost* parts so beautifull I fynd; How much more those essentiall parts of His, His truth, his love, his wisedome, and his blis, 110 His grace, his doome**, his mercy, and his might, By which he lends us of himselfe a sight! [* _Utmost_, outmost.] [** _Doome_, judgment.] Those unto all he daily doth display, And shew himselfe in th’image of his grace, As in a looking-glasse, through which he may 115 Be seene of all his creatures vile and base, That are unable else to see his face; His glorious face! which glistereth else so bright, That th’angels selves can not endure his sight. But we, fraile wights! whose sight cannot sustaine 120 The suns bright beames when he on us doth shyne, But* that their points rebutted** backe againe Are duld, how can we see with feeble eyne The glorie of that Maiestie Divine, In sight of whom both sun and moone are darke, 125 Compared to his least resplendent sparke? [* _But_, unless.] [** _Rebutted_, reflected.] The meanes, therefore, which unto us is lent Him to behold, is on his workes to looke. Which he hath made in beauty excellent, And in the same, as in a brasen booke, 130 To read enregistred in every nooke His goodnesse, which his beautie doth declare; For all thats good is beautifull and faire. Thence gathering plumes of perfect speculation To impe* the wings of thy high flying mynd, 135 Mount up aloft through heavenly contemplation From this darke world, whose damps the soule do blynd, And, like the native brood of eagles kynd, On that bright Sunne of Glorie fixe thine eyes, Clear’d from grosse mists of fraile infirmities. 140 [* _Impe_, mend, strengthen.] Humbled with feare and awfull reverence, Before the footestoole of his Maiestie Throw thy selfe downe, with trembling innocence, Ne dare looke up with córruptible eye On the dred face of that great Deity, 145 For feare lest, if he chaunce to look on thee, Thou turne to nought, and quite confounded be.