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[IX. Believe, that thus a humble worshipper]
Believe, that thus a humble worshipper,Who in soiled weeds along this pathway's going,
To one of Nobler kind may minister,
His lowly hope in such faint words bestowing;
O Lady, that my words for thee were more,
But I have not the right to richer store.
Thou art of finer mould, thy Griefs are proof,
Only those nearest to the sun do burn,
While we sit merry underneath the roof,
And vainly to those larger empires turn;
Had I been heir of brightness such as thou,
Then might a Sorrow seal my rounded brow.
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