A timid grace sits trembling in her eye, 
As loath to meet the rudeness of men's sight, 
Yet shedding a delicious lunar light 
That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy 
The care-crazed mind, like some still melody: 
Speaking most plain the thoughts which do possess 
Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness, 
And innocent loves, and maiden purity: 
A look whereof might heal the cruel smart 
Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind: 
Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart 
Of him who hates his brethren of mankind. 
Turned are those lights from me, who fondly yet 
Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.