The Sixth Decade. Sonnet X. My God, my God, how much I love my goddess!

Henry Constable (1562–1613)

MY God, my God, how much I love my goddess!

Whose virtues rare, unto the heavens arise.

My God, my God, how much I love her eyes!

One shining bright, the other full of hardness.

My God, my God, how much I love her wisdom!

Whose works may ravish heaven’s richest “maker.”

Of whose eyes’ joys, if I might be partaker;

Then to my soul, a holy rest would come.

My God, how much I love to hear her speak!

Whose hands I kiss, and ravished oft rekisseth;

When she stands wotless, whom so much she blesseth.

Say then, What mind this honest love would break;

Since her perfections pure, withouten blot.

Makes her beloved of them, she knoweth not?