All beauty’s base, all graces are impure,
That do thy erring thoughts from God remove.
Sparks to the fire, the beams yield to the sun, 5
All grace to God, from whom all graces run.
If picture move, more should the pattern please;
No shadow can with shadowed thing compare,
And fairest shapes, whereon our loves do seize,
But silly signs of God’s high beauty are. 10
Go, starving sense, feed thou on earthly mast;
True love, in heaven seek thou thy sweet repast.