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.