Why do I languish thus, drooping and dull,

As if I were all earth?

O give me quicknesse, that I may with mirth

Praise thee brim-full!

The wanton lover in a curious strain

Can praise his fairest fair;

And with quaint metaphors her curled hair

Curl o're again.

Thou art my lovelinesse, my life, my light,

Beautie alone to me:

Thy bloudy death and undeserv'd, makes thee

Pure red and white.

When all perfections as but one appeare,

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, & ev'n wrongs

Sharpen their Muse:

But I am lost in flesh, whose sugred lyes

Still mock me, and grow bold:

Sure thou didst put a minde there, if I could

Finde where it lies.

Lord, cleare thy gift, that with a constant wit

I may but look towards thee:

Look onely; for to love thee, who can be,

What angel fit?