Much I respect, and much I have adored,

In my young days, that chaste and goodly veil,

Which holds a treasure, like a miser's hoard,

And more attracts by all it doth conceal—

A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword,

A loving letter with a mystic seal,

A cure for grief—for what can ever rankle

Before a petticoat and peeping ankle?