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Ben Jonson - An Elegy
Work rating: Medium

THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise, 
   And yours of whom I sing be such 
   As not the world can praise too much, 
Yet `tis your Virtue now I raise. 

A virtue, like allay so gone 
   Throughout your form as, though that move 
   And draw and conquer all men`s love, 
This subjects you to love of one. 

Wherein you triumph yet—because 
   `Tis of your flesh, and that you use 
   The noblest freedom, not to choose 
Against or faith or honour`s laws. 

But who should less expect from you? 
   In whom alone Love lives again: 
   By whom he is restored to men, 
And kept and bred and brought up true. 

His falling temples you have rear`d, 
   The wither`d garlands ta`en away; 
   His altars kept from that decay 
That envy wish`d, and nature fear`d: 

And on them burn so chaste a flame, 
   With so much loyalty`s expense, 
   As Love to acquit such excellence 
Is gone himself into your name. 

And you are he—the deity 
   To whom all lovers are design`d 
   That would their better objects find; 
Among which faithful troop am I— 

Who as an off`ring at your shrine 
   Have sung this hymn, and here entreat 
   One spark of your diviner heat 
To light upon a love of mine. 

Which if it kindle not, but scant 
   Appear, and that to shortest view; 
   Yet give me leave to adore in you 
What I in her am grieved to want!
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