Dimmi Di Grazia, Amor. Nay, Prithee Tell Me, Love, When I Behold My Lady, Do Mine Eyes Her Beauty See In Truth, Or Dwells That Loveliness In Me Which Multiplies Her Grace A Thousandfold? Thou Needs Must Know; For Thou With Her Of Old Comest To Stir My Soul'S Tranquillity; Yet Would I Not Seek One Sigh Less, Or Be By Loss Of That Loved Flame More Simply Cold.-- The Beauty Thou Discernest, All Is Hers; But Grows In Radiance As It Soars On High Through Mortal Eyes Unto The Soul Above: 'Tis There Transfigured; For The Soul Confers On What She Holds, Her Own Divinity: And This Transfigured Beauty Wins Thy Love.