The Passionate Pilgrim
If love made me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?
O! Never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd:
Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll constant prove;
Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bow'd.
Study his biased leaves, and makes his book thine eyes,
Where all those pleasures live that art can comprehend.
If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice;
Well learned is that tongue that well that thee commend;
All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder;
Which is to me some praise, that thy parts admire:
Thine eyes Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful thunder,
Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire.
Celestial as thou art, O! do not love that wrong,
To sing heaven's praise with such an earthy tongue.