With all the dowries of celestial grace;
By sovereign choice from th' heavenly quires select,
And lineally derived from angels' race:
O what is now of it become aread?
Aye me! can so divine a thing be dead?"
"Ah, no! It is not dead, nor can it die;
But lives for aye in blissful Paradise:
Where like a new-born babe it soft doth lie
In bed of lilies, wrapped in tender wise:
And compassed all about with roses sweet,