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best discerned of my mind's inward eyes,

And yet your graces outwardly divine,

Whose dear remembrance in my bosom lies,

Too rich a relic for so poor a shrine;

You, in whom nature chose herself to view,

When she her own perfection would admire;

Bestowing all her excellence on you,

At whose pure eyes Love lights his hallowed fire;

Even as a man that in some trance hath seen

More than his wond'ring utterance can unfold,

That rapt in spirit in better worlds hath been,

So must your praise distractedly be told;

Most of all short when I would show you most,

In your perfections so much am I lost.