Amanda sancta, mistress o’er my heart
Who by my side in earnest poverty
Stood all this while, our loves as priceless art
Decors our home, and sichlike property
What virtues might I sing that aging comely kept;
Thy humor, and thy soul, and more renew
As if each year were but a night well-slept
And waking they and thou refreshed anew.
The like thy beauty’s face, which sculptors vain
Might try to carve, but mirror best by act
As when a statue out its matrix plain
Ecloses new the beauty it former lack’t.
A time and date to thee no fell mischance;
Thy timeless beauty with my heart does dance.
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