Thomas Randolph (1605–1635)

I HAVE a mistress, for perfections rare

In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair.

Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes;

Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice;

And wheresoe’er my fancy would begin,

Still her perfection lets religion in.

We sit and talk, and kiss away the hours

As chastely as the morning dews kiss flowers:

I touch her, like my beads, with devout care,

And come unto my courtship as my prayer.