But what have I to do with prating griefs,
That mar the sanctity on Beauty’s brow?
I have in thee a thousand full reliefs;
Why wound the seeds of joy with torture’s plough?
Even now, thy youthful years, in wisdom fledg’d,
Wave thousand-coloured plumes o’er elder minds;
Whiles thou, to only Love and Beauty pledged,
Unsought, uncared for, feel’st the applausive winds:
Envy thou dost take captive, and transform
To the good angel of magnanimous praise;
And men are only jealous, and grow warm,
Matching those wordy altars which they raise:
That men adore the wonder of thy worth,
But shames my love, whose utmost praise is dearth.