Unto the temple of thy beauty,
  And to the tomb where pity lies,
I, pilgrim-clad with zeal and duty,
  Do offer up my heart, mine eyes.
My heart, lo! in the quenchless fire,
  On love’s burning altar lies,
Conducted thither by desire
  To be beauty’s sacrifice.

But pity on thy sable hearse,
  Mine eyes the tears of sorrow shed;
What though tears cannot fate reverse,
  Yet are they duties to the dead.
O, Mistress, in thy sanctuary
  Why wouldst thou suffer cold disdain
To use his frozen cruelty,
  And gentle pity to be slain?

Pity that to thy beauty fled,
  And with thy beauty should have lived,
Ah, in thy heart lies burièd,
  And nevermore may be revived;
Yet this last favour, dear, extend,
  To accept these vows, these tears I shed,
Duties which I thy pilgrim send,
  To beauty living, pity dead.