You knew, — who knew not Astrophil?
(That I should live to say I knew,
And have not in possession still!)
Things known permit me to renew;
Of him you know his merit such,
I cannot say, you hear, too much.

Within these woods of Arcady
He chief delight and pleasure took,
And on the mountain Partheny,
Upon the crystal liquid brook,
The Muses met him every day
That taught him sing, to write, and say.

When he descended down the mount,
His personage seemed most divine;
A thousand graces one might count
Upon his lovely cheerful eyne;
To hear him speak and sweetly smile,
You were in Paradise the while.

A sweet attractive kind of grace,
A full assurance given by looks,
Continual comfort in a face,
The lineaments of Gospel books;
I trow that countenance cannot lie
Whose thoughts are legible in the eye.

Was never eye did see that face,
Was never ear did hear that tongue,
Was never mind did mind his grace,
That ever thought the travel long;
But eyes, and ears, and every thought,
Were with his sweet perfections caught.

Above all others this is he,
Which erst approvid in his song
That love and honour might agree,
And that pure love will do no wrong.
Sweet saints! it is no sin nor blame
To love a man of virtuous name.

Did never love so sweetly breathe
In any mortal breast before;
Did never Muse inspire beneath
A poet's brain with finer store:
He wrote of love with high conceit,
And beauty reared above her height.