Richard Brome (d. 1652?)

NOR Love nor Fate dare I accuse

For that my love did me refuse,

But O! mine own unworthiness

That durst presume so mickle bliss.

It was too much for me to love

A man so like the gods above:

An angel’s shape, a saint-like voice,

Are too divine for human choice.

O had I wisely given my heart

For to have loved him but in part;

Sought only to enjoy his face,

Or any one peculiar grace

Of foot, of hand, of lip, or eye,—

I might have lived where now I die:

But I, presuming all to choose,

Am now condemnèd all to lose.