An Elegy
By Ben Jonson
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 mens 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 honours laws.
But who should less expect from you?
In whom alone Love lives again:
By whom he is restored to men,
And kept and bred and brought up true.
His falling temples you have reard,
The witherd garlands taen away;
His altars kept from that decay
That envy wishd, and nature feard:
And on them burn so chaste a flame,
With so much loyaltys expense,
As Love to acquit such excellence
Is gone himself into your name.
And you are he the deity
To whom all lovers are designd
That would their better objects find;
Among which faithful troop am I.
Who as an offring at your shrine
Have sung this hymn, and here entreat
One spark of your diviner heat
To light upon a love of mine.
Which if it kindle not, but scant
Appear, and that to shortest view;
Yet give me leave to adore in you
What I in her am grieved to want!