You Best Discerned Of My Mind'S Inward Eyes, And Yet Your Graces Outwardly Divine, Whose Dear Remembrance In My Bosom Lies, Too Rich A Relic For So Poor A Shrine; You, In Whom Nature Chose Herself To View, When She Her Own Perfection Would Admire; Bestowing All Her Excellence On You, At Whose Pure Eyes Love Lights His Hallowed Fire; Even As A Man That In Some Trance Hath Seen More Than His Wond'Ring Utterance Can Unfold, That Rapt In Spirit In Better Worlds Hath Been, So Must Your Praise Distractedly Be Told; Most Of All Short When I Would Show You Most, In Your Perfections So Much Am I Lost.