Because thou wast the daughter of a king, Whose beauty did all Nature's works exceed, And wisdom wonder to the world did breed, A Muse might rouse herself on Cupid's wing; But, sith the graces which from Nature spring Were graced by those which from grace did proceed, And glory have deserved, my Muse doth need An angel's feathers when thy praise I sing. For all in thee became angelical: An angel's face had angels' purity, And thou an angel's tongue didst speak withal; Lo! why thy soul, set free by martyrdom, Was crowned by God in angels' company, And angels' hands thy body did entomb. |