=Source.=--George Herbert, _Poems_. Ed. 1633. P. 102.
I joy dear mother when I view
Thy perfect lineaments and hue,
Both sweet and bright.
Beauty in thee takes up her place
And dates her letters from thy face
When she doth write.
A fine aspect in fit array
Neither too mean nor yet too gay
Shows who is best.
Outlandish looks may not compare,
For all they either painted are,
Or else undrest.
She on the hills which wantonly
Allureth all in hope to be
By her preferred.
Hath kissed so long her painted shrines,
That e'en her face by kissing shines
For her reward.
She in the valley is so shy
Of dressing, that her hair doth lie
About her ears.
While she avoids her neighbour's pride;
She wholly goes on t' other side,
And nothing wears.
But, dearest mother, (what those miss),
The mean, thy praise and glory is,
And long may be
Blessed be God whose love it was
To double-moat thee with his grace,
And none but thee.