Still, in my doubts, this comfort I explore—
That all confess what I must not declare.
Yet on this day, in every passing year,
Poets the tribute of their praise may bring;
Nor should thy virtues then be so severe,
As to forbid us of thy worth to sing. 20
Still I forbear; for why should I portray
Those looks that seize—that mind that wins the heart—
Since all the world, on this propitious day,
Will tell how lovely and how good thou art?