“The house was built upon the place,
    Only as for a mark of grace,
    And for an inn to entertain
    Its Lord awhile, but not remain. 
    Him Bishop’s-hill or Denton may,
    Or Billborow, better hold than they: 
    But Nature here hath been so free,
    As if she said, ‘Leave this to me.’ 
    Art would more neatly have defac’d
    What she had laid so sweetly waste
    In fragrant gardens, shady woods,
    Deep meadows, and transparent floods.”

And then starts the story:—­

    “While, with slow eyes, we these survey,
    And on each pleasant footstep stay,
    We opportunely may relate
    The progress of this house’s fate. 
    A nunnery first gave it birth,
    (For virgin buildings oft brought forth)
    And all that neighbour-ruin shows
    The quarries whence this dwelling rose. 
    Near to this gloomy cloister’s gates,
    There dwelt the blooming virgin Thwaites,
    Fair beyond measure, and an heir,
    Which might deformity make fair;
    And oft she spent the summer’s suns
    Discoursing with the subtle Nuns,
    Whence, in these words, one to her weav’d,
    As ’twere by chance, thoughts long conceiv’d: 
    ’Within this holy leisure, we
    Live innocently, as you see. 
    These walls restrain the world without,
    But hedge our liberty about;
    These bars inclose that wilder den
    Of those wild creatures, called men,
    The cloister outward shuts its gates,
    And, from us, locks on them the grates. 
    Here we, in shining armour white,
    Like virgin amazons do fight,
    And our chaste lamps we hourly trim,
    Lest the great Bridegroom find them dim. 
    Our orient breaths perfumed are
    With incense of incessant prayer;
    And holy-water of our tears
    Most strangely our complexion clears;
    Not tears of grief, but such as those
    With which calm pleasure overflows;
    Or pity, when we look on you
    That live without this happy vow. 
    How should we grieve that must be seen
    Each one a spouse, and each a queen,
    And can in heaven hence behold
    Our brighter robes and crowns of gold! 
    When we have prayed all our beads,
    Some one the holy Legend reads,
    While all the rest with needles paint
    The face and graces of the Saint;
    Some of your features, as we sewed,
    Through every shrine should be bestowed,
    And in one beauty we would take
    Enough a thousand Saints to make. 
    And (for I dare not quench the fire
    That me does for your good inspire)
    ’Twere sacrilege a man to admit
    To holy things for heaven fit. 
    I see the angels in a crown
    On you the lilies showering down;
    And round about you glory breaks,
    That something more than human speaks. 
    All beauty when at such a