If thy soul wills thee to seek beauty rare,
Be not blinded by the sun’s rays streaming,
Trail as thine inward inclination bare,
And taste the fruits of thy labor teeming.
As the sound of thine searching speaks in truth.
Ay, sweet aria bellowed from rafters,
And let lithe flow beckon back from thy youth,
For honey’s the sound of a child’s laughters.
Then in ways a love story doth unfold,
Let truth account in that which pleasure prove,
For power becomes thy life story told;
That all of me thine heart and soul doth move.
So all doubt that beauty and love remove,
And act in fine ways thine heart doth behoove.