_By greater men attended,_
_Shall, with their lives and names,_
_Have all their glories ended:_
_With fairest Queens, shall She_
_Sit, sharing equal glory;_
_And Times to come shall be_
_Delighted with our Story._
_In spite of others' hates,_
_More honour I will do her!_
_Than those that with estates_
_And help of fortune woo her:_
_Yea, that True Worth I spy;_
_Though monarchs strove to grace it,_
_They should not reach more high_
_Than I dare hope to place it!_
_And though I never vaunt_
_What favours are possessed;_
_Much less content I want_
_Than if they were expressed:_
_Let others make their mirth,_
_To blab each kiss or toying!_
_I know no bliss on earth_
_Like secret love enjoying._
_And this shall be the worst_
_Of all that can betide me._
_If I (like some accurst)_
_Should find my hopes deride me;_
_My cares will not be long;_
_I know which way to mend them!_
_I'll think, "Who did the wrong!"_
_Sigh! break my heart! and end them!_
[_The Picture of Fair VIRTUE._]
Hail, fair Beauties! and again,
Hail to all your goodly train!
What I promised yesterday,
If it please you, hear ye may!
For now, once begun have I,
Sing I will, though none were by;
And though freely on I run
Yet confused paths to shun.
First, that part shall be disclosed,
That's of Elements composed.
There the two unequal pair,
Water, Fire; Earth and Air
(Each one suiting a complexion)
Have so cunning a commixtion,
As they, in proportion sweet,
With the rarest temper meet!
Either, in as much as needeth;
So as neither, ought exceedeth.
This pure substance is the same
Which the Body we do name.
Were that of immortal stuff,
'Tis refined and pure enough
To be called a Soul! for, sure,
Many souls are not so pure.
I, that with a serious look
Note of this rare Model took,
Find that Nature in their places
So well couchèd all the Graces,
As the curious'st eyes that be
Cannot blot, nor blemish see.
Like a pine it groweth straight,
Reaching an approvèd height,
And hath all the choice perfections
That inflame her best affections.
In the motions of each part,
Nature seems to strive with Art;
Which her gestures most shall bless,
With the gifts of Pleasingness.
When She sits, methinks I see
How all virtues fixèd be
In a frame, whose constant mould
Will the same unchangèd hold.
If you note her, when She moves:
CYTHEREA, drawn with doves,
May come learn such winning notions
As will gain to love's devotions,
More than all her painted wiles;
Such as tears, or sighs, or smiles.
Some, whose bodies want true graces,
Have sweet features in their faces:
Others (that do miss them there),
Lovely are, some other where,
And to our desires, do fit
In behaviour, or in wit;
Or some inward worth appearing
To the soul, the soul endearing.
But in Her, your eye may find
All that's good in Womankind.
What in others, we prefer,
Are but sundry parts of Her;
Who, most perfect, doth present
What might One and All content.
Yea, he that, in love still ranges,
And, each day, or hourly changes;
(Had he judgement but to know
What perfections in her grow)
There, would find the spring of store,
Swear a faith, and change no more.
Neither, in the total Frame,
Is She only void of blame;
But each part, surveyed asunder
Might beget both love and wonder.
If you dare to look so high
Or behold such majesty;
Lift your wondering eyes, and see
Whether ought can bettered be!
There's her Hair, with which LOVE angles,
And beholders' eyes entangles!
For in those fair curlèd snares,
They are hampered unawares;
And compelled to swear a duty
To her sweet enthralling beauty.
In my mind, 'tis the most fair
That was ever callèd hair:
Somewhat brighter than a brown;
And her tresses waving down
At full length, and, so dispread,
Mantles her, from foot to head.
If you saw her archèd Brow;
Tell me, pray! how Art knows how
To have made it in a line
More exact, or more divine!
Beauty, there, may be descried
In the height of all her pride.
'Tis a meanly rising plain,
Whose pure white hath many a vein
Interlacing, like the springs
In the earth's enamellings.
If the tale be not a toy,
Of the little wingèd Boy:
When he means to strike a heart,
Thence! he throws the fatal dart,
Which, of wounds still makes a pair;
One of Love, one of Despair.
Round, her Visage; or so near
To a roundness, doth appear,
That no more of length it takes,
Than what best proportion makes.
Short her Chin is; and yet so
As it is just long enow.
Loveliness doth seem to glory
In that circling promontory,
Pretty moving features skip
'Twixt that hillock and the lip,
If you note her, but the while
She is pleased to speak, or smile.
And her Lips, that shew no dulness,
Full are, in the meanest fulness.
Those, the leaves be, whose unfolding
Brings sweet pleasures to beholding:
For such pearls they do disclose;
Both the Indies match not those!
Yet are so in order placed,
As their whiteness is more graced.
Each part is so well disposed
And her dainty mouth composed,
So as, there, is no distortion
Misbeseems that sweet proportion.
When her ivory Teeth she buries
'Twixt her two enticing cherries,
There appears such pleasures hidden,
As might tempt what were forbidden.
If you look again the whiles,
She doth part those lips in smiles;
'Tis as when a flash of light
Breaks from heaven to glad the night.
Other parts, my pencil crave;
But those lips I cannot leave!
For, methinks, [if] I should go
And forsake those cherries so;
There's a kind of excellence
Holds me from departing hence.
I would tell you, what it were;
But my cunning fails me there.
They are like, in their discloses,
To the morning's dewy roses;
That, besides the name of "fair,"
Cast perfumes that sweet the air.
Melting soft her kisses be!
And had I, now, two or three,
More inspirèd by their touch,
I had praised them twice as much!
But, sweet Muses! mark ye how
Her fair Eyes do check me now!
That I seemed to pass them so,
And their praises overgo:
And yet, blame me not that I
Would so fain have passed them by!
For I fearèd to have seen them,
Least there were some danger in them!
Yet such gentle looks they lend,
As might make her foe, a friend;
And by their allurings move
All beholders unto love.
Such a power is also there,
As will keep those thoughts in fear;
And Command enough I saw,
To hold impudence in awe.
There, may he that knows to love,
Read contents which are above
Their ignoble aims, who know
Nothing that so high doth grow.
Whilst She, me beholding is,
My heart dares not think amiss!
For her sight, most piercing clear,
Seems to see what's written there.
Those bright Eyes (that, with their light,
Oftentimes have blest my sight;
And in turning thence their shining,
Left me, in sad darkness, pining)
Are the rarest, lovliest gray;
And do cast forth such a ray
As the man that black prefers,
More would like, this gray of hers.
When their matchless beams she shrouds;
'Tis like CYNTHIA hid in clouds!
If again she shew them light,
'Tis like morning after night!
And 'tis worthy well beholding
With how many a pretty folding,
Her sweet Eyelids grace that Fair,
Meanly fringed with beaming hair,
Whereby, neatly overspread,
Those bright lamps are shadowèd.
'Twixt the eyes, no hollow place,
Wrinkle, nor undecent space
Disproportions Her in ought;
Though by Envy, faults were sought!
On those Eyebrows never yet,
Did disdainful scowling sit.
Love and Goodness gotten thither,
Sit, on equal thrones together;
And do throw just scorn on them,
That their Government contemn.
Then, almost obscured, appears
Those her jewel-gracing Ears!
Whose own beauties more adorn,
Than the richest pearl that's worn
By the proudest Persian dames,
Or the best that Nature frames.
There, the voice, in love's meanders,
Through their pretty circlings, wanders!
Whose rare turnings will admit
No rude speech to enter it.
Stretching from Mount Forehead lies
Beauty's Cape, betwixt her eyes:
Which two crystal-passing lakes,
Love's delightful Isthmus makes!
Neither more nor less extending
Than most meriteth commending.
Those in whom that part hath been
Best deserving praises seen;
Or, surveyed without affection,
Came the nearest to perfection;
Would scarce handsome ones appear
If with Her, compared they were:
For it is so much excelling,
That it passeth means of telling!
On the either side of this,
Love's most lovely Prospect is!
Those, her smiling Cheeks, whose colour
Comprehends True Beauty fuller
Than the curious'st mixtures can,
That are made by Art of man.
It is Beauty's Garden-knot,
Where, as in a true-love-knot,
So, the snowy Lily grows,
Mixèd with the crimson Rose.
That as friends they joinèd be.
Yet they seem to disagree,
Whether of the two shall reign?
And the lilies oft obtain
Greatest sway, unless a blush
Help the roses at a push.
Hollow fallings none there are!
There's no wrinkle! there's no scar!
Only there's a little Mole,
Which from VENUS' cheek was stole.
If it were a thing in Nature
Possible, that any creature
Might decaying life repair,
Only by the help of air;
There were no such salve for death,
As the balm of her sweet Breath!
Or, if any human power
Might detain the soul an hour
From the flesh, to dust bequeathing,
It would linger on her breathing!
And be half in mind, that there
More than mortal pleasures were.
And whose fortune were so fair
As to draw so sweet an air,
Would, no doubt, let slighted be
The perfumes of Araby.
For the English Eglantine
Doth, through envy of Her, pine.
Violets and Roses too
Fear that She will them undo:
And it seems that in her Breast
Is composed the Phoenix's nest.
But, descend a while, mine eye!
See, if polished ivory,
Or the finest fleecèd flocks,
Or the whitest Albion rocks,
For comparisons may stand,
To express that snowy Hand!
When She draws it from her glove
It hath virtue to remove,
Or disperse, if there be ought
Cloudeth the beholder's thought.
If that palm but toucheth yours,
You shall feel a secret power
Cheer your heart, and glad it more!
Though it drooped with grief before.
Through the Veins disposèd true
Crimson, yields a sapphire hue,
Which adds grace and more delight
By embracing with the white.
Smooth, and moist, and soft, and tender
Are her Palms! the Fingers, slender,
Tipt with mollifièd pearl!
And if that transformèd girl,
Whose much cunning made her dare
With JOVE's daughter to compare,
Had that hand worn, maugre spite,
She had shamed the goddess quite!
For, there is, in every part,
Nature perfecter than Art.
These were joinèd to those Arms,
That were never made for harms!
But possess the sweetest graces
That may apt them for embraces.
Like the silver streams they be,
Which, from some high hill, we see
Clipping-in a goodly vale,
That grows proud of such a thrall.
Neither alabaster rocks,
Pearl-strewed shores, nor Cotswold flocks,
Nor the mountains tipt with snow,
Nor the milk-white swans of Po,
Can appear so fair to me,
As her spotless Shoulders be!
They are like some work of state,
Covered with the richest plate,
And a presence have that strike
With devotions, goddess-like.
'Twixt those shoulders, meanly spread
To support that globe-like head,
Riseth up her Neck! wherein
Beauty seemeth to begin
To disclose itself in more
Tempting manner than before.
How therein she doth excel,
Though I would, I cannot tell!
For I nought on earth espy
That I may express it by.
There, should lovers (as in duty)
Hang rich Trophies up to Beauty!
'Tis proportioned to a height
That is even with Delight.
Yet is a great deal higher
Than to answer base Desire.
Where the neck hath end, begins
That smooth path, where LOVE's close gins
Are thick placèd, to enthrall
Such as, that way straggle shall.
There, a pleasing passage lies
Far beyond the sight of eyes;
And much more delight contains
Than the old Elizian fields.
Whatsoever others say
There's alone the Milky Way!
That to Beauty's Walks doth go;
Which, if others came to know,
In possessing their delight,
They should never reach the height
Of the pleasures, which I share:
Whilst that those debarrèd are.
Yet unspoken of, there rests
Her two twin-like lovely Breasts!
Whose round-rising, pretty panting
I would tell, but Art is wanting!
Words can never well declare
Her fair sweet perfections there;
For, would Measures give me leave
To express what I conceive,
I do know I should go near
Half to ravish all that hear.
And but that I learn to season
What I apprehend with Reason,
It had made my Passions' weight
Sink me, through my own conceit.
There, I find so large a measure
Of an unexpressèd pleasure,
That my heart, through strong surmise,
In a pleasing fainting lies.
He that there may rest to prove
Softer finds those beds of love,
That the cotton ripest grown;
Or fine pillows of such down
As, in time of moulting, fans
From the breasts of silver swans.
Those two sisters are a pair,
Smooth alike, like soft, like fair,
If together they be viewed:
Yet if they apart be shewed;
That you touch or see, seems smoother,
Softer, fairer than the other.
That the colour may delight;
So much red as makes the white
Purer seem, is shed among:
And then, here and there, along
Runs a sapphire-mine, whose blue
Shadowed, makes so brave a show
On those lily mounts, as though
Beauty's simples there did grow.
In the vale, 'twixt either hill,
Lies Desire in ambush still,
And surpriseth every eye
Which doth that way dare to pry.
There is, sure, the twi-top hill,
Where the Poets learn their skill!
That's Parnassus, where the Muses
Chaste, and wise MINERVA uses!
Her two Cherrilets are those
Whence the pleasant'st nectar flows;
And no fruits e'er equalled these,
Fetched from the Hesperides.
Once, as CYNTHIA's games she chased,
And, for air, left half unlaced
Her light summer robe of green
(Beauty's safe, but slender screen!)
Unawares, I partly spied,
That fair lily-field unhid
Which you may her Belly name!
Yet, nor She, nor I to blame.
For it was, but what mine eye
Might behold with modesty.
'Tis a fair and matchless plain
Where unknown delights remain!
'Tis the store-house wherein Pleasure
Hides the richest of her treasure!
Which, True Modesty, in ward,
Keeps, with a continual guard
Of such Virtues, as she's sure,
No corruption can allure.
There, they say, (for, mind it well!
I do this, by hearsay tell)
Grows her Navel, which doth seem
Like some jewel of esteem:
With so wondrous cunning wrought
That an injury, 'tis thought,
Such a beauty, with the rest,
Should (unknown) be unexprest.
Somewhat else there is, that's hidden
Which to name I am forbidden;
Neither have I ever pried
After that should be unspied.
Never shall my maiden Muse
So herself, and me abuse
As to sing what I may fear
Will offend the choicest ear!
Though I know, if none be by,
But true friends to modesty;
I might name each part at will,
And yet no man's thought be ill.
Yet, for fear loose hearers may
Judge amiss, if more I say;
I descend, to shun all blame,
To the Pillars of the Frame.
Where though I ne'er aimed so high
As her dainty youthful Thigh;
Whose rare softness, smoothness, fulness
Being known, would teach my dulness
Such a Strain as might befit
Some brave Tuscan Poet's wit.
Once a saucy bush, I spied
Pluck her silken skirts aside,
So discovered unto me
All those beauties to the Knee:
And before the thorns' entanglings
Had let go the silver spanglings,
I perceive the curious knitting
Of those joints was well befiting
Such a noble piece of work:
'Mongst whose turnings seem to lurk
Much to entertain the sight
With new objects of delight.
Then the Leg, for shape as rare,
Will admit of no compare!
Straight it is; the Ankle lean!
Full the Calf, but in the mean!
And the slender Foot doth fit
So, each way, to suit with it;
As She nothing less excels
Therein, than in all things else.
Yea, from head to foot, her feature
Shews her an Unblemished Creature,
In whom, Love with Reason might
Find so matchless a Delight,
That more cannot be acquired;
Nor a greater bliss desired.
Yet, if you will rest an hour
Under yonder shady bower!
I, anon, my Muse will raise
To a higher pitch of praise!
But a while with raspice-berries,
Strawberries, ripe pears, and cherries,
(Such as these our groves do bear)
We will cool our palates there.
And, those homely cates among
Now and then, a Pastoral Song,
Shall my lad, here, sing and play!
Such as you had yesterday.
_I._
_A lad, whose faith will constant prove,_
_And never know an end;_
_Late, by an oversight in love,_
_Displeased his dearest Friend:_
_For which incensed, she did retake_
_The favours which he wore;_
_And said, "He never, for her sake,_
_Should wear, or see them more!"_
_The grief whereof, how near it went,_
_And how unkindly took,_
_Was figured by the discontent_
_Appearing in his look._
_At first, he could not silence break,_
_So heavy sorrow lay;_
_But when his sighs gave way to speak,_
_Thus, sadly, did he say._
_"My only Dear!" and with that speech,_
_Not able to sustain_
_The floods of grief at sorrow's breach,_
_He paused awhile again._
_At length, nigh fainting, did express_
_These words, with much ado,_
_"O Dear! Let not my love's excess,_
_Me, and my love undo!"_
_She, little movèd with his pain,_
_His much distraction eyed;_
_And changing love into disdain,_
_Thus, still unkind, replied._
_"Forbear to urge one kindness more!_
_Unless you long to see_
_The good respect you had before,_
_At once, all lost in me!"_
_With that dismayed, his suit he ceased,_
_And down his head he hung;_
_And as his Reason's strength decreased,_
_His Passion grew more strong._
_But seeing she did slight his moan;_
_With willow garlands wreathed,_
_He sate him down, and all alone,_
_This sad complaint he breathed._
_"O Heavens!" quoth he, "Why do we spend_
_Endeavours thus in vain?_
_Since what the Fates do fore-intend_
_They never change again._
_Nor Faith, nor Love, nor true Desert,_
_Nor all that man can do,_
_Can win him place within her heart,_
_That is not born thereto!"_
"_Why do I fondly waste my youth_
_In secret sighs and tears?_
_Why to preserve a spotless truth,_
_Taste I, so many cares?_
_For women that no worth respect,_
_Do so ungentle prove;_
_That some shall win by their neglect,_
_What others lose with love._"
"_Those that have set the best at naught,_
_And no man could enjoy;_
_At last, by some base gull are caught,_
_And gotten with a toy._
_Yea, they that spend an Age's light,_
_Their favours to obtain;_
_For one unwilling oversight,_
_May lose them all again!_"
"_How glad, and fain, alas, would I,_
_For her, have underwent_
_The greatest care, ere she should try_
_The smallest discontent?_
_Yet She, that may my life command,_
_And doth those Passions know!_
_Denieth me a poor demand,_
_In height of all my woe._"
"_O, if the Noblest of her time,_
_And best beloved of me:_
_Could for so poor, so slight a crime_
_So void of pity be!_
_Sure, had it been some common one,_
_Whose patience I had tried;_
_No wonder I had been undone,_
_Or unforgiven, died!_"
"_A thousand lives I would have laid!_
_(So well I once believed)_
_She would have deigned to lend me aid_
_If she had seen me grieved._
_But now, I live to see the day,_
_When I presumèd so,_
_I neither dare for pity pray,_
_Nor tell her of my woe!_"
"_Yet, let not, poor despised heart!_
_Her worth ought questioned be!_
_Hadst thou not failèd in desert_
_She had not failèd thee!_
_But lest, perhaps, they flout thy moan,_
_That should esteem thee dear;_
_Go, make it by thyself alone,_
_Where none may come to hear!_
"_Still keep thy forehead crowned with smiles!_
_What Passion e'er thou try;_
_That none may laugh at thee, the whiles_
_Thou discontented lie!_
_And let no wrong, by change distain_
_A love so truly fair;_
_But rather, never hope again!_
_And thou shall ne'er despair!_"
_II._
_O'ertired by cruel Passions that oppress me,_
_With heart nigh broken, Time, no hope would give me;_
_Upon my bed: I laid me down to rest me:_
_And gentle Sleep, I wooèd to relieve me._
_But O, alas! I found that, on the morrow,_
_My sleeping Joys brought forth my waking Sorrow._
_For, lo, a dream I had, so full of pleasure,_
_That to possess, what to embrace I seemed,_
_Could not effect my joy in higher measure,_
_Than now it grieves me, that I have but dreamed._
_O let my dreams be Sighs and Tears hereafter!_
_So I (that sleeping, weep) may wake in laughter._
_Fain would I tell how much that Shadow pleased me,_
_But tongue and pen want words, and art in telling;_
_Yet this I'll say, to shew what horror seized me_
_(When I was robbed of bliss, so much excelling),_
_Might all my dreams be such; O, let me never_
_Awake again! but sleep, and dream for ever!_
_For when I waking, saw myself deceivèd,_
_And what an inward hell it had procurèd:_
_To find myself of all my hopes bereavèd_
_It brought on Passions not to be endurèd._
_And, knew I, next night had such dreams in keeping;_
_I'd make my eyes foreswear, for ever, sleeping!_
_III._
_You woody Hills! you Dales! you Groves!_
_You Floods! and every Spring!_
_You creatures come, whom nothing moves,_
_And hear a Shepherd sing!_
_For to Heroès, Nymphs, and Swains,_
_I, long, have made my moan;_
_Yet what my mournful Verse contains_
_Is understood of none._
_In song, APOLLO gave me skill;_
_Their love, his Sisters deign:_
_With those that haunt Parnassus' hill,_
_I friendship entertain._
_Yet this is all in vain to me,_
_So haplessly I fare!_
_As those things which my glory be,_
_My cause of ruin are._
_For Love hath kindled in my breast,_
_His never quenchèd fire:_
_And I! who often have exprest_
_What other men desire,_
_(Because I could so dive into_
_The depth of others' moan);_
_Now, I, my own afflictions shew,_
_I heeded am of none!_
_Oft have the Nymphs of greatest worth,_
_Made suit, my Songs to hear;_
_As oft (when I have sighèd forth,_
_Such notes as saddest were):_
_"Alas," said they, "poor gentle heart!_
_Whoe'er that Shepherd be!"_
_But none of them suspects my smart,_
_Nor thinks, it meaneth Me!_
_When I have reached so high a Strain_
_Of Passion in my Song,_
_That they have seen the tears to rain_
_And trill, my cheek along;_
_Instead of sigh, or weeping eye_
_To sympathise with Me!_
_"O were he once in love!" they cry,_
_"How moving would he be?"_
_O pity me, you Powers above!_
_And take my skill away!_
_Or let my hearers think I love_
_And feign not what I say!_
_For if I could disclose the snare_
_Which I, unknown, do bear;_
_Each line would make them sighs impart,_
_And every word, a tear._
_Had I a Mistress, some do think_
_She should revealèd be;_
_And I would favours wear, or drink_
_Her health, upon my knee._
_Alas, poor fools! they aim awry!_
_Their fancy flags too low!_
_Could they, my love's rare course espy,_
_They would amazèd grow._
_But let nor Nymph, nor Swain conceive_
_My tongue shall ever tell_
_Who, of this rest doth me bereave;_
_Or where I am not well._
_But if you, sighing me espy_
_Where rarest features be;_
_Mark where I fix a weeping eye,_
_And swear you! "There is She!"_
_Yet, ere, my eyes betray me shall,_
_I'll swell, and burst with pain!_
_And for each drop they would let fall,_
_My heart shall bleed me twain!_
_For since my soul more sorrow bears_
_Than common lovers know;_
_I scorn my Passions should, like theirs,_
_A common humour shew._
_Ear never heard of, heretofore,_
_Of any love like mine;_
_Nor shall there be, for evermore,_
_Affection so divine!_
_And that to fain it, none may try,_
_When I dissolved must be;_
_The first I am, it livèd by!_
_And die it shall, with me!_
[_Fair VIRTUE's sweet Graces._]
Boy! ha' done! For now my brain
Is inspirèd fresh again;
And new raptures pressing are,
To be sung in praise of Her,
Whose fair Picture lieth nigh,
Quite unveiled to every eye.
No small favour hath it been,
That such Beauty might be seen;
Therefore, ever may they rue it,
Who, with evil eyes shall view it!
Yea, what ancient stories tell
Once to rude ACTEON fell
(When, with evil thoughts, he stood
Eying CYNTHIA in the flood);
May that fatal hornèd curse
Light upon them, or a worse!
But, whatever others be,
Lest some fault be found in me,
If imperfect this remain;
I will over-trim't again!
Therefore, turn where we begun!