Why hangs that cloud upon thy brow, 
That beauteous heaven e'rewhile serene? 
Whence do those storms and tempests flow,
Or what this gust of passion mean? 
And must then mankind lose that light,
Which in thine eyes was wont to shine, 
And lye obscur'd in endless night,
For each poor silly speech of mine?

Dear child, how can I wrong thy name, 
Thy form so fair, and faultless stands,
That could ill tongues abuse thy fame, 
Thy beauty could make large amends:
Or if I durst profanely try, 
Thy beauty's pow'rful charms t'upbraid,
Thy virtue well might give the lie, 
Nor call thy beauty to its aid.