To what serves mortal beauty | —dangerous; does set danc-	
Ing blood—the O-seal-that-so | feature, flung prouder form	
Than Purcell tune lets tread to? | See: it does this: keeps warm	
Men’s wits to the things that are; | what good means—where a glance	
Master more may than gaze, | gaze out of countenance.	       
Those lovely lads once, wet-fresh | windfalls of war’s storm,	
How then should Gregory, a father, | have gleanèd else from swarm-	
Ed Rome? But God to a nation | dealt that day’s dear chance.	
To man, that needs would worship | block or barren stone,	
Our law says / Love what are | love’s worthiest, were all known;	       
World’s loveliest—men’s selves. Self | flashes off frame and face.	
What do then? how meet beauty? | Merely meet it; own,	
Home at heart, heaven’s sweet gift; | then leave, let that alone.	
Yea, wish that though, wish all, | God’s better beauty, grace.