Sidney Godolphin (1610–1643)

NO more unto my thoughts appear,

At least appear less fair,

For crazy tempers justly fear

The goodness of the air.

Whilst your pure image hath a place

In my impurer mind,

Your very shadow is the glass

Where my defects I find.

Shall I not fly that brighter light

Which makes my fires look pale,

And put that virtue out of sight

Which makes mine none at all?

No, no, your picture doth impart

Such value, I not wish

The native worth to any heart

That’s unadorned with this.

Though poorer in desert I make

Myself, whilst I admire,

The fuel which from Hope I take

I give to my Desire.

If this flame lighted from your eyes

The subject do calcine,

A heart may be your sacrifice

Too weak to be your shrine.