Though others plight for pride or gain,
And mix the cup of love;
Theirs be the duller troth, the stain;
Ours the sweet stars approve.
My riches, love, they shall be thou;
My pride, thy love for me:
No diamond fairer decks a brow
Than thine sincerity.
Though ours be tenements, not towers,
Theirs, lawns and halls of ease,
Beloved,‘ tis heaven, not gold, is ours,
And the realities.
No sordid wish doth make us one,
But love, love, love.
O surely, surely, that is done
Which the sweet stars approve.