Xvi

Beloved, when I read some fine conceit, Wherein are wrought as in glass The features love hath made so sweet, I marvel at so bold an art; Seeing thou art too dear to praise Upon the highway where men pass. For when I seek To tell the ways God's hand of tenderness Hath touched thine earthly part, Again I hear Thy first own cry of happiness, And, sweetest of God's sounds, the dear Remonstrance of thy giving heart,-- And cannot speak!