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 For though a little thing, yet were it sweet To testify that thou whose sovran sight Should sum all human-kind kissing thy feet, In me at least didst realise thy right.

But what I crave,—what day and night my heart Cries for, with yearning not to be represt, Is that all time should see, glassed in my art, Thy image, as I bear it in my breast.

Beauty is common, and the triumph poor That treads upon the sense, not on the will; At best its empire partial and unsure, For some men are born blind, and some see ill.

But to be peerless through a peerless soul, Sending through flesh its pure transpicuous ray; To wear, in mere completion of the whole, The fairest form that ever bloomed in clay.

As this is truly greatness, so to live Thus beyond death is glory truly read; Mere admiration is but fugitive, But Love is faithful, even to the dead.