Sometimes I fain would find in thee some fault, 
   That I might love thee still in spite of it: 
   Yet how should our Lord Love curtail one whit 
Thy perfect praise whom most he would exalt? 
Alas! he can but make my heart's low vault 
   Even in men's sight unworthier, being lit 
   By thee, who thereby show'st more exquisite 
Like fiery chrysoprase in deep basalt. 

Yet will I nowise shrink; but at Love's shrine 
   Myself within the beams his brow doth dart 
   Will set the flashing jewel of thy heart 
In that dull chamber where it deigns to shine: 
For lo! in honour of thine excellencies 
My heart takes pride to show how poor it is.