Though to my selfe forsworne, to thee Ile constant prove,
Those thoughts to me like Okes, to thee like Osiers bowed,
Studdy his byas leaves, and makes his booke thine eyes,
Where all those pleasures lives, that Art can comprehend:
If knowledge be the marke, to know thee shall suffice:
Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend,
All ignorant that soule, that sees thee without wonder,
Which is to me some prayse, that I thy parts admire:
Thine eye Ioves lightning seemes, thy voyce his dreadfull thunder
Which (not to anger bent) is musick and sweet fire.
  Celestiall as thou art, O, doe not love that wrong:
  To sing heavens prayse, with such an earthly tongue.

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