The poem
You best discern'd 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 hallow'd fire; E'en as a man that in some trance hath seen More than his won'ring utt'rance 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.