Since, in the ashen nunnery of your heart, You shun the love your glories must excite, Then choose some white-walled convent's better part, And shine, the moon of its unthankful night. There, in your cold entrancing holiness, I'll love you still, all signt of you denied; There, for my sake, harsh macerations press
Close to the bone, and die beatified— For then those sweets that bind me to the earth Shall charm my thoughts to heavenly excellence: To reach the measure of your high-purposed worth And know your bosom's paradisal sense, I'll kiss your image, with exaltation faint, And kneel before you for my patron saint.