Mary Wroth
Can the loved image of thy dearest face,
So mirror-like, present thee to my sight,
Yet crystal's coldness gain love's sweetest place
When warmth with sight hath ever equal might.
You say 'tis but the picture of true light
Whereof my heart is made the safest case,
Faithfully keeping that rich portrait's right
From change or thought that relic to displace.
My breast doth nourish it, and with it lives
As oil to lamps their lasting being gives,
Each look allures a wish of meeting joy.
If but a picture, then restore with ease
The life-piece of my soul, and let it seize
This chillness into heat, and bars destroy.