It is not mine to sing the stately grace,
The great soul beaming in my lady's face,
To write no sounding odes to me is given,
Wherein her eyes outshine the stars in heaven.

Not mine in flowing melodies to tell
The thousand beauties that I know so well,
Not mine to serenade her ev'ry tress
And sit and sigh my love in idleness.

But mine it is to follow in her train,
Do her behests in pleasure or in pain
Burn at her altar love's sweet frankincense
And worship her in distant reverence.