On her Resemblance

Forgive me Cynthia, if (as Poets use,
When they some divine Beauty would express)
I roses, pinks, or July-flowers do choose :
It is a kind of weakness I confess,
To praise the great'st perfection by a less :
And is the same, as if one strove to paint
The holiness or virtues of a Saint.

Yet there is a necessity impos'd.
For those bright Angels, which we virtues call
Had not been known, had they not been inclos'd
In precious stones, or things diaphanal :
The essences and forms celestial
Had been conceal'd, had not the heavenly powers
Been stamp'd, and printed on stones, trees, and flowers.

So thy divine pure soul, and every grace,
And heavenly beauty it doth comprehend,
Had not been seen, but for thy lovely face,
Which with angel-like features may contend,
Which into flesh and blood did down descend.
That she her purest essence might disclose
In it, as thy fair cheeks do in the Rose.