Commanded to Write Verses

Since your Command inspires
My willing heart with Lyrick fires,
Though my Composure owe its Birth,
Or to cold Water, or dull Earth,
Wanting the active qualities
That sprightly Fire and Aire comprise;
Yet guided by that Influence,
I may with those Defects dispence:
And Raptures no less winning vent
Then the fam'd Thracian Instrument.
What though old sullen Saturn lye
Brooding on my Nativity,
So your bright eyes the Clouds dispell,
Which on my drooping Fancy dwell?
But stay, what Glasse have we so bright,
To do your matchlesse beauty right?
Nature but from her owne disgrace
Can add no lustre to that face;
Nor from her patterns can we finde,
A Form to represent your minde.
The figures which this World invest
Are Images in which exprest
Some truer Essences appear,
Which not to sight subjected are.
So you fair Celia inwardly
Dissemble well the Deity,
And counterfeit in flesh and skin
The finenesse of a Cherubin:
But fair one, if you must put on
This Orders Institution,
Admitted to this Hierarchie,
A Guardian Angell be to me.