I joy, dear mother, when I view br Thy perfect lineaments, and hue br Both sweet and bright. br Beauty in thee takes up her place, br And dates her letters from thy face, br When she doth write. br br A fine aspect in fit array, br Neither too mean nor yet too gay, br Shows who is best. br Outlandish looks may not compare, br For all they either painted are, br Or else undress'd. br br She on the hills which wantonly br Allureth all, in hope to be br By her preferr'd, br Hath kiss'd so long her painted shrines, br That ev'n her face by kissing shines, br For her reward. br br She in the valley is so shy br Of dressing, that her hair doth lie br About her ears; br While she avoids her neighbour's pride, br She wholly goes on th' other side, br And nothing wears. br br But, dearest mother, what those miss, br The mean, thy praise and glory is br And long may be. br Blessed be God, whose love it was br To double-moat thee with his grace, br And none but thee.