Sacred virginity, vnconquered Queene!
Whose kingdome never hath invaded beene;
Of whose sweete rosy crowne noe hand hath power
Once but to touch, much lesse to plucke a flower:
Gainst whome proud Love--which on the world doth raigne,--
With armies of his passions fights in vaine;
In whome gray Winter neuer doth appeare,
To whome greene Springtide lasteth all the yeare.
O fresh immortall baye, vntroubled well,
Or violett, which vntoucht doest sweetest smell;
Faire vine, which without prop[248] doest safely stand,
Pure gold, new coynd, which neuer past a hand.
O temperance, in the supreame degree
And hiyest pitch that vertue's winges can flee:
O more then humane spirit, of Angells' kind:
O white, unspotted garment of the mind,
Which first cloathed man, before hee was forlorne;
And wherein God Himselfe chose to bee borne.
Within my soule, O heavenly vertue rest,
Untill my soule with heaven it selfe bee blest.[249]
[Footnote 248: Miswritten 'drop' in MS. G.]
[Footnote 249: At bottom of this page in the MS. 'Thomas Bakewell' is
scribbled twice. G.]