By scrivened hope this rhyme would bring you fame:

No beauty now or past can rival you;

Yet this poor hand that strives might cause you shame

With ragged lines my pen has here rough-hewn.

But whosoever writes here matters not,

Save that his will stay true to virtue named,

Though highest praise by mortal men be sought

Grand words fall short where peerless worth is framed.

For in pure truth, no woman stands more blessed

By female grace in all its mortal forms,

Of this perfection, I must here attest:

You far exceed what bards have ever sworn.

Beauties of the past, by pen or paint be known—

But cast in honest strokes, you stand alone.