As priests discover some more sacred shrine,
Which none must touch, yet all to it may bow.
When thus, as suitors, mourning virgins pass
Thro’ their clean camp, themselves in form they draw,
That they with martial reverence may grace
Beauty, the stranger, which they seldom saw.
They vayl’d their ensigns as it by did move,
Whilst inward, as from native conscience, all
Worship’d the poet’s darling godhead, Love;
Which grave philosophers did Nature call.