Since holy Vestall lawes have been neglected,
The Gods pure fire hath been extinguisht quite:
No Virgine once attending on that light,
Nor yet those heavenly secrets once respected.

Till thou alone to pay the heavens their dutie,
Within the Temple of thy sacred name,
With thine eyes kindling that Celestial flame,
By those reflecting Sun-beames of thy beautie.

Here Chastity that Vestall most divine,
Attends that Lampe with eye which never sleepeth,
The volumes of Religions lawes shee keepeth,

My faire, had I not erst adornd my Lute,
With those sweet strings stolne from thy golden hayre,
Unto the world had all my joyes been mute,
Nor had I learn'd to descant on my faire.

Had not mine eye seene thy Celestiall eye,
Nor my hart knowne the power of thy name,
My soule had ne'r felt thy Divinitie,
Nor my Muse been the trumpet of thy fame.

But thy divine perfections by their skill,
This miracle on my poore Muse have tried:
And by inspiring, glorifide my quill,
And in my verse thy selfe art deified.

My thoughts bred up with Eagle-birds of love,
And for their vertues I desierd to know,
Upon the nest I set them, forth to prove,
If they were of the Eagles kinde or no.

But they no sooner saw my Sunne appeare,
But on her rayes with gazing eyes they stood,
Which proov'd my birds delighted in the ayre,
And that they came of this rare kinglie brood.

But now their plumes full sumd with sweet desire,
To shew their kinde, began to clime the skies:
Doe what I could my Eaglets would aspire,
Straight mounting up to thy celestiall eyes.

My fayre, if thou wilt register my love,
More then worlds volumes shall thereof arise,
Preserve my teares, and thou thy selfe shalt prove
A second flood downe rayning from mine eyes.

Note but my sighes, and thine eyes shal behold,
The Sun-beames smothered with immortall smoke:
And if by thee my prayers may be enrold,
They heaven and earth to pitty shall provoke.

Looke thou into my breast, and thou shalt see
Chaste holy vowes for my soules sacrifice:
That soule (sweet Maide) which so hath honored thee,

Reade heere (sweet Mayd) the story of my wo,
The drery abstracts of my endles cares:
With my lives sorow enterlyned so,
Smok'd with my sighes, and blotted with my teares.

The sad memorials of my miseries,
Pend in the griefe of myne afflicted ghost:
My lives complaint in doleful Elegies,
With so pure love as tyme could never boast.

Receave the incense which I offer heere,
By my strong fayth ascending to thy fame,
My zeale, my hope, my vowes, my praise, my prayer,
My soules oblations to thy sacred name.

Ankor tryumph, upon whose blessed shore,
The sacred Muses solemnize thy name:
Where the Arcadian Swaines with rytes adore
Pandoras poesy, and her living fame.

Where first this jolly Sheepheard gan rehearse,
That heavenly worth, upon his Oaten reede,
Of earths great Queene: in Nectar-dewed verse,
Which none so wise that rightly can areede.

Nowe in conceite of his ambitious love,

Vouchsafe to grace these rude unpolish'd rymes,
Which long (deer friend) have slept in sable night,
And come abroad now in these glorious tymes,
Can hardly brooke the purenes of the light.

But sith you see their desteny is such,
That in the world theyr fortune they must try,
Perhaps they better shall abide the tuch,
Wearing your name theyr gracious livery.

Yet these mine owne, I wrong not other men,

Mere torture-chamber has this world been to me,
Where by the heels the hangman me suspended,
With red-hot pincers all my members rended,
Then into cramping iron fetters threw me.
Wild shrieks of nameless pain resounded through me,
From mouth and eyes the blood was streaming furious —
A lady passing by stopped, cool and curious;
With golden hammer's coup de grâce she slew me,
Then curious looked she on while in contortion

WHEREIN A GRIEVING BIRD REMINDS HIM OF HIS OWN HEAVIER ANGUISH

Sweet wandering bird, that on the branch you swing to
Pour such impartial music or in phrases
Darkened with imminent winter mourn dead graces
As song dies with the summer that you sing to —
Ah could you guess the bitter bough I cling to,
Your golden grief would find in mine clear traces
Of kinship! In my heart your singing space is;
One song is ours, one measure we both ring to.
And yet who knows? The grief you give a name to
May not endure: some bough she could not leap to,

WHEREIN HE INVOKES THE AID OF LOVE TO SING HER WORTHILY

Ah Love, assist my faint and foolish brain!
Pillar the style, sustain the lyric portal!
Help me to sing of her who is immortal,
A citizen of the celestial reign!
Permit, Lord, that my verses may attain
The reach of her proud praise (presumptuous mortal!)
Whose passing our poor world must now deplore till
The Golden Trumpet give her back again.
Love answers: " In myself and Heaven the best,
By converse pure and precept sage and holy,
All in her breathed of whom Death stands possessed.