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Thus thou descend'st to our infirmitie,
Who can the Sun in water see.
Soe dost thou, when in silke and gold,
Thou cloudst thy selfe; since wee which doe behold,
Are dust, and wormes, 'tis just
Our objects be the fruits of wormes and dust;
Let every Jewell be a glorious starre,
Yet starres are not so pure, as their spheares are.
And though thou stoope, to'appeare to us, in part,
Still in that Picture thou intirely art,
Which thy inflaming eyes have made within his loving heart.