Henry Constable (1562–1613)

BECAUSE thou wast the daughter of a king,

Whose beauty did all Nature’s works exceed,

And wisdom wonder to the world did breed,

A muse might rouse itself on Cupid’s wing;

But, sith the graces which from nature spring

Were graced by those which from grace did proceed,

And glory have deserved, my Muse doth need

An angel’s feathers when thy praise I sing.

For all in thee became angelical:

An angel’s face had angels’ purity,

And thou an angel’s tongue didst speak withal;

Lo! why thy soul, set free from martyrdom,

Was crowned by God in angels’ company,

And angels’ hands thy body did entomb.