The British Church

I joy, dear mother, when I view
Thy perfect lineaments, and hue
    Both sweet and bright.
Beauty in thee takes up her place,
And dates her letters from thy face,
    When she doth write.  A fine aspect in fit array,
Neither too mean nor yet too gay,
    Shows who is best.
Outlandish looks may not compare,
For all they either painted are,
    Or else undress’d.  She on the hills which wantonly
Allureth all, in hope to be
    By her preferr’d,
Hath kiss’d so long her painted shrines,
That ev’n her face by kissing shines,
    For her reward.  She in the valley is so shy
Of dressing, that her hair doth lie
    About her ears;
While she avoids her neighbour’s pride,
She wholly goes on th’ other side,
    And nothing wears.  But, dearest mother, what those miss,
The mean, thy praise and glory is
    And long may be.
Blessed be God, whose love it was
To double-moat thee with his grace,
    And none but thee.