'Tis hard to love not, whilst to love 
Be sad joy, if by lust misled, 
Thoughts too sweetly gaze on things 
That perforce must change and decay.

Who's the man could savour his fill 
Of gold, fame, sceptre, delights, false 
Count'nance fair, that a heart he'd 
Have sated and all cares might allay?

Love's surely our being's just course, 
Aye, but 'tis flesh, from matter wrought, 
Praising what knows like inception, 
Guiles the soul, for which all's little

If Thee, Beauty real and e'erlasting, 
It sees not, its love's true object.