To one blaming my high-minded Love

Too great? wherein? is it in wealth or bloud?
Or is she any way too good?
The sacred treasure that I bring, is Love,
Angels enjoy nor wish no more;
'Tis Sovereign too, and sans allay will prove
As rich as both her Indies doubled o're.

Love makes equality; nor wil admit
Finites should bound an Infinite:
Who sets no value on himself, shal ne'r
By others much esteemed be.
Blind Cupid doth assist the bold, while fear
Unman's the heart, and shuts the Lovers eie.

But she is high and wel-discended; true;
My birth stiles me as freeborn too;
No peasant bloud doth stein or chil my veins,
And the proud Youth that warms them, he
Was of a Goddesse born, and thus disdeins
I should adore lesse than a Deitie.

My loves diviner flames do upwards flie
By nature like their sparks on high;
Base heavy things do only downward tend
To the dull center gave them birth;
But heavn-deduced spirits there ascend:
Whilst low ignoble minds fix to their earth.

Mans sight erected looks to Heav'n, that so
His thoughts he there might level too:
She is the Empyraeum of my love;
Whose Glories though they blast mine eys,
Yet shall my Eagles singed feathers prove
Bright Trophaees of a gallant enterprise.