Fain would I speak of all thy hopes disclose,
My pen, charm’d with delights, scarce will steal on,
Lingering about the rapture which it knows
It dallies coyly with an idle song;
Too long the prospect which mine eye surveys,
How shall I mark each flower or stay to cull?
Through light, through shade, Perfection planes the ways
With sweet variety, that grows not dull;
Each new enchantment seems itself so fair,
That the last pride spoils his ancestor’s aims:
So justly tempered all, none can impair
Concent’ring beauty’s just imperial claims;
Each borrows new delight while it conveys,
And leads to harmony by various ways.