Why do I languish thus, drooping and dull,
As if I were all earth?
O give me quickness, that I may with mirth
Praise thee brimfull!

The wanton lover in a curious strain
Can praise his fairest fair;
And with quaint metaphors her curlèd hair
Curl o'er again.

Thou art my loveliness, my life, my light,
Beauty alone to me:
Thy bloody death and undeserved, makes thee
Pure red and white.

When all perfections as but one appear,
That those thy form doth show,
The very dust, where thou dost tread and go,
Makes beauties here;

Where are my lines then? my approaches? views?
Where are my window-songs?
Lovers are still pretending, and ev'n wrongs
Sharpen their Muse:

But I am lost in flesh, whose sugared lies
Still mock me, and grow bold:
Sure thou didst put a mind there, if I could
Find where it lies.

Lord, clear thy gift, that with a constant wit
I may but look towards thee:
Look only; for to love thee, who can be,
What angel fit?
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