Elegy 21

Dear Saint, I do love you so well,
You cannot think, nor I can tell.
As when from earth some look on high,
And see the Lights that grace the skie,
They think them small, because they seem
Not unto them to be extreme;
So you perchance when you do read
My Love dress'd in so poor a weed
As my weak Muse can frame, will straight
Or think it counterfeit, or light:
But could my hand express my minde,
You would no longer be unkinde;
For tis so full of love to you,
You cannot think, nor I can shew.