Marlowe.
You find both here. I know thy real life;
We do not see the truth—or, O, how little!
Pure light sometimes through painted windows streams;
And, when all's dark around thee, thou art fair!
Thou bear'st within an ever-burning lamp,
To me more sacred than a vestal's shrine;
For she may be of heartless chastity,
False in all else, and proud of her poor ice,
As though 'twere fire suppress'd; but thou art good