To his amorous thought

SWeet wanton thought, who art of beauty borne,
And who on beauty feedst, and sweet desire,
Like Taper flee, still circling, and still turne
About that flame; that all so much admire
That heavenly faire, which doth out-blush the morne,
Those Ivory hands, those threads of golden wire
Thou still surroundest yet dar'st not aspire;
Sure thou dost well that place not to come neare,
Nor see the Majesty of that faire Court;
For if thou saw'st what wonders there resort,
The poore intelligence that moves that spheare
Like soules ascending to those Joyes above;
Back never wouldst thou turne, nor thence remove.
What can we hope for more? what more injoy?
Since fairest things thus soonest have their end,
And as on bodies shadows do attend,
Soon all our blisse is followed with annoy,
Yet she's not dead, she lives where she did love,
Her memory on earth, her soule above.