THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise,
And yours of whom I sing be such
As not the world can praise too much,
Yet 'tis 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 your flesh, and that you use
The noblest freedom, not to choose
Against or faith or honour's laws.
But who should less expect from you?