Richard Lovelace (1618–1658)

SHE beat the happy pavèment—

By such a star made firmament,

Which now no more the roof enviès!

But swells up high, with Atlas even,

Bearing the brighter nobler heaven,

And, in her, all the deities.

Each step trod out a Lover’s thought,

And the ambitious hopes he brought

Chained to her brave feet with such arts,

Such sweet command and gentle awe,

As, when she ceased, we sighing saw

The floor lay paved with broken hearts.