Where Passion—gorgeous cenobite—blurs not
With fumid incense of his own hot breath
The hallow’d eyes of sweet Philosophy;
Where body battens not upon the soul,
But both are Reason’s angels, and Love’s self—
Pontifical in daisy-chains—doth hold
High mass at nature’s May-pole;—if such star
There were in all God’s heaven, and such indeed
Were ours, there would I speak and utter, not
“Dear Eglantine, I love you,” but “We love.”