THEY say a man ne’er bore such love to man,
Or, if he did, ’twere but a cause for shame;
But, speaking so, they their own measure scan,
And blot their censure with self-blaming blame.
For, thou being Beauty’s best, the best of me
Worshipp’d but Beauty’s self and Beauty’s worth;
My fire and air, my spirit, adorÈd thee
Unmix’d with gross compounding of my earth.
And thou wert best of Truth, the first in grace
Of all rich gems in Virtue’s carcanet;
Then should I not love thee and give thee place
Above all love of sense on woman set?
In love of Beauty, whate’er shape ’tis in,
There’s nought of Truth, if it must think of sin.