Mottects, or grave chamber-music

More than most fair, full of all heavenly fire,
Kindled above to shew the Maker’s glory;
Beauty’s first-born, in whom all powers conspire
To write the Graces’ life and Muses’ story;
If in my heart all nymphs else be defacèd,
Honour the shrine where you alone are placèd.

Thou window of the sky, and pride of spirits,
True character of honour in perfection,
Thou heavenly creature, judge of earthly merits,
And glorious prison of men’s pure affection:
If in my heart all nymphs else be defacèd
Honour the shrine where you alone are placèd.

Where shall a sorrow great enough be sought
For this sad ruin which the Fates have wrought,
Unless the Fates themselves should weep and wish
Their curbless power had been controlled in this?
For thy loss, worthiest Lord, no mourning eye
Has flood enough; no muse nor elegy
Enough expression to thy worth can lend;
No, though thy Sidney had survived his friend.
Dead, noble Brooke shall be to us a name
Of grief and honour still, whose deathless fame
Such Virtue purchased as makes us to be
Unjust to Nature in lamenting thee;
Wailing an old man’s fate as if in pride
And heat of Youth he had untimely died.