So sweet the lyre, so musical the strain,
By which my suit, Belovëd! is expressed,
That, hearing them, no such indifferent breast
But welcomes Love and his delicious pain,
And opes to his innumerable train
Of sweet persuasions, lovely mysteries,
Brief angers, gentle reconcilements, sighs
And ardour unabash'd by proud disdain.
Yet, when I strive to sing what beauty dwells
Upon thy brow, so oft in scorn array'd,
My song upon the unworthy lips expires.
It must be loftier verse than mine that tells
Of loveliness like thine. My Muse, dismay'd,
Folds her weak wing and silently retires.