Chapter III (1)

_Sad Eyes! What do you ail,_
_To be thus ill disposed?_
_Why doth your sleeping fail,_
_Now all men's else are closed?_
_Was't I, that ne'er did bow_
_In any servile duty!_
_And will you make me, now,_
_A slave to Love and Beauty?_

_What though my Mistress smile,_
_And in her love affects thee!_
_Let not her eye beguile;_
_I fear she disrespects thee!_
_Do not, poor Heart! depend_
_On those vain thoughts that fill thee!_
_They'll fail thee, in the end!_
_So must thy Passions kill thee!_

_What hopes have I, that She_
_Will hold her favours ever;_
_When so few women be_
_That constant can persèver?_
_Whate'er She do protest!_
_When fortunes do deceive me,_
_Then She, with all the rest,_
_I fear, alas, will leave me!_

_Whil'st Youth, and Strength remains,_
_With Art that may commend her;_
_Perhaps, She nought disdains_
_Her Servant should attend her._
_But it is one to ten,_
_If crosses overtake me,_
_She will not know me, then;_
_But scorn, and so forsake me!_

_Shall then, in earnest truth,_
_My careful eyes observe her?_
_Shall I consume my youth;_
_And short' my time to serve her?_
_Shall I, beyond my strength,_
_Let Passions' torments prove me?_
_To hear her say, at length_,
Away! I cannot love thee!

_O, rather let me die_
_Whil'st I, thus gentle find her!_
_'Twere worse than death, if I_
_Should find She proves unkinder!_
_One frown, though but in jest,_
_Or one unkindness feignèd,_
_Would rob me of more rest_
_Than e'er could be regainèd._

_But in her eyes, I find_
_Such signs of pity moving;_
_She cannot be unkind,_
_Nor err, nor fail in loving:_
_And on her forehead, this_
_Seems written to relieve me_,
My heart, no joy shall miss
That Love, or She can give me!

_Which if I find, I vow_
_My service shall persèver!_
_The same that I am now;_
_I will continue ever!_
_No others' high degree,_
_No beauteous look shall change me!_
_My love shall constant be,_
_And no estate estrange me!_

_When other noble Dames,_
_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!

And, now all is overrun.
Mark, if everything exprest
Suit not so unto the rest,
As if Nature would prefer
All perfections unto her!
Wherefore seems it strange to any
That they daily see so many,
Who were, else, most perfect creatures,
In some one part, want true features;
Since from all the fair'st that live,
Nature took the best, to give
Her, perfection in each part?
I, alone except her heart;
For, among all Womankind,
Such as hers is hard to find!
If you truly note her Face,
You shall find it hath a grace,
Neither wanton, nor o'er serious,
Nor too yielding, nor imperious;
But, with such a feature blest,
It is that which pleaseth best,
And delights each several eye
That affects with modesty.
Lowliness hath, in her look,
Equal place with Greatness took:
And if Beauty, anywhere,
Claims prerogatives, 'tis there!
For, at once, thus much 'twill do;
Threat! command! persuade! and woo!
In her Speech, there is not found
Any harsh, unpleasing sound;
But a well beseeming power,
Neither higher, neither lower,
Than will suit with her perfection.
'Tis the Loadstone of Affection!
And that man, whose judging eyes,
Could well sound such mysteries,
Would in love, make her his choice,
Though he did but hear her voice!
For such accents breathe not, whence
Beauty keeps non-residence.
Never word of hers I hear,
But 'tis music to mine ear,
And much more contentment brings
Than the sweetly-touchèd strings
Of the pleasing Lute, whose strains
Ravish hearers, when it 'plains.
Raised by her Discourse, I fly
In contented thoughts so high
That I pass the common measures
Of the dullèd senses' pleasures;
And leave far below my sight
Vulgar pitches of delight.
If She smile, and merry be;
All about her are as She!
For each looker on takes part
Of the joy that's in her heart.
If She grieve, or you but spy
Sadness peeping through her eye;
Such a grace it seems to borrow
That you'll fall in love with Sorrow;
And abhor the name of Mirth,
As the hateful'st thing on earth.
Should I see her shed a tear,
My poor eyes would melt, I fear:
For much more in Hers appears,
Than in other women's tears;
And her look did never feign
Sorrow, where there was no pain.
Seldom hath She been espied,
So impatient as to chide!
For if any see her so,
They'll in love with Anger grow.
Sigh, or speak, or smile, or talk,
Sing, or weep, or sit, or walk;
Every thing that She doth do,
Decent is, and lovely too.
Each part that you shall behold
Hath within itself enrolled
What you could desire to see,
Or your heart conceive to be:
Yet, if from that part, your eye
Moving, shall another spy,
There, you see as much or more
Than you thought to praise before.
While the eye surveys it! you
Will imagine that her Brow
Hath all beauty: when her Cheek
You behold! it is as like
To be deemèd fairest too;
So much there, can Beauty do.
Look but thence, upon her Eye!
And you wonder, by-and-by,
How there may be anywhere,
So much worthy praise as there.
Yet, if you survey her Breast,
Then, as freely, you'll protest
That in them, perfection is!
Though, I know, that one poor kiss
From her tempting Lips, would then
Make all that, foresworn again!
For the selfsame moving grace
Is, at once, in every place.
She, her beauty never foils
With your ointments, waters, oils!
Nor no loathsome _fucus_ settles,
Mixed with Jewish fasting spetles!
Fair by Nature being born,
She doth, borrowed beauty scorn!
Whoso kisses her, needs fear
No unwholesome varnish there.
For from thence, he only sips
The pure nectar of her lips,
And, at once, with these he closes,
Melting rubies, cherries, roses.
Then, in her Behaviour, She
Striveth but Herself to be:
Keeping such a decent state,
As, indeed, she seems to hate
Precious leisure should be spent
In abusèd compliment.
Though she knows what others do,
(And can all their Courtship too)
She is not in so ill case,
As to need their borrowed grace.
Her Discourses sweetened are,
With a kind of artless care
That expresseth greater Art,
Than affected words impart.
So, her Gestures (being none
But that freeness, which alone
Suits the braveness of her mind)
Make her, of herself, to find
Postures more becoming far
Than the mere acquired are.
If you mark, when, for her pleasure,
She vouchsafes to foot a measure.
Though, with others' skill, She pace;
There's a sweet delightful grace
In herself, which doth prefer
Art beyond that Art, in her.
Neither needs She beat her wit
To devise what dressings fit!
Her complexion, and her feature
So beholding are to Nature,
If She, in the fashions go,
All the reason She doth so,
Is, because She would not err
In appearing singular;
Doubtless, not for any thought,
That 'twill perfect her in ought.
Many a dainty-seeming Dame
Is, in native beauties lame.
Some are gracèd by their tires,
As their quoifs, their hats, their wires.
One, a ruff doth best become;
Falling-bands much altereth some.
And their favours, oft, we see
Changèd as their dressings be.
Which her beauty never fears,
For it graceth all She wears.
If ye note her tire to-day;
"That doth suit her best!" you'll say.
Mark, what She, next morn, doth wear!
"That becomes her best!" you'll swear.
Yea, as oft as Her you see,
Such new graces still there be.
As She ever seemeth graced
Most by that she weareth last;
Though it be the same She wore
But the very day before.
When she takes her tires about her,
(Never half so rich without her!)
At the putting on of them,
You may liken every gem
To those lamps, which, at a Play,
Are set up to light the day:
For their lustre adds no more
To what TITAN gave before;
Neither doth their pretty gleamings
Hinder ought, his greater beamings.
And yet (which is strange to me)
When those costly deckings be
Laid away; there seems descried
Beauties, which those veils did hide;
And She looks, as doth the Moon,
Past some cloud, through which she shone:
Or some jewel Watch, whose case,
Set with diamonds, seems to grace
What it doth contain within,
Till the curious work be seen;
Then, 'tis found, that costly Shrining
Did but hinder t'others' shining.
If you chance to be in place
Where her Mantle, She doth grace;
You would presently protest
"Irish dressings were the best!"
If again, She lay it down,
While you view her in a Gown,
And how those her dainty limbs
That close-bodied garment trims:
You would swear, and swear again,
"She appeared loveliest then!"
But if She, so truly fair,
Should untie her shining hair
And, at length, that treasure shed;
JOVE's endurèd GANYMEDE,
Neither CYTHEREA's joy,
Nor the sweet self-loving Boy
Who in beauty did surpass,
Nor the fair'st that ever was,
Could, to take your prisoner, bring
Looks so sweetly conquering.
She excels her, whom APOLLO
Once, with weeping eyes, did follow;
Or that Nymph, who, shut in towers,
Was beguiled with golden showers;
Yea, and she, whose Love was wont
To swim o'er the Hellespont
For her sake (though in attire
Fittest to enflame desire)
Seemed not half so fair to be
Nor so lovely as is She.
For the man, whose happy eye
Views her in full majesty,
Knows She hath a power that moves
More than doth the Queen of Loves,
When she useth all her power
To inflame her paramour.

And, sometimes, I do admire
All men burn not with Desire!
Nay, I muse her Servants are not
Pleading love: but O, they dare not!
And I, therefore, wonder why
They do not grow sick, and die.
Sure, they would do so, but that,
By the Ordinance of Fate,
There is some concealèd thing
So each gazer limiting,
He can see no more of merit
Than beseems his worth and spirit.
For, in her, a Grace there shines
That o'erdaring thoughts confines,
Making worthless men despair
To be loved of one so fair.
Yea, the Destinies agree
Some good judgements blind should be;
And not gain the power of knowing
Those rare beauties, in her growing.
Reason doth as much imply,
For, if every judging eye
Which beholdeth her, should there
Find what excellences are;
All, o'ercome by those perfections,
Would be captive to affections.
So (in happiness, unblest)
She, for lovers, should not rest.
This, well heeding, think upon!
And, if there be any one
Who alloweth not the worth
Which my Muse hath painted forth;
Hold it no defect in Her!
But that he's ordained to err.
Or if any female wight
Should detract from this I write;
She, I yield, may shew her wit,
But disparage Her no whit:
For, on earth few women be,
That from envy's touch are free;
And whoever, Envy, knew,
Yield those honours that were due?

Though, sometimes, my Song I raise
To unusèd heights of praise,
And break forth, as I shall please,
Into strange hyperboles,
'Tis to shew, Conceit hath found
Worth beyond Expression's bound.
Though her Breath I do compare
To the sweet'st perfumes that are;
Or her Eyes, that are so bright,
To the morning's cheerful light:
Yet I do it not so much
To infer that she is such,
As to shew that, being blest
With what merits name of Best,
She appears more fair to me,
Than all creatures else that be.
Her true beauty leaves behind
Apprehensions in my mind,
Of more sweetness than all Art
Or Inventions can impart:
Thoughts too deep to be expressed,
And too strong to be suppressed.
Which, oft, raiseth my conceits
To so unbelievèd heights
That, I fear, some shallow brain
Thinks my Muses do but feign.
Sure, he wrongs them, if he do!
For, could I have reachèd to
So like Strains, as these you see;
Had there been no such as She?
Is it possible that I
Who scarce heard of Poesy
Should a mere _Idea_ raise
To as true a pitch of praise,
As the learned Poets could,
(Now, or in the times of old)
All those real Beauties bring,
Honoured by the Sonneting?
Having Arts, and favours too,
More t' encourage what they do?
No! If I had never seen
Such a Beauty, I had been
Piping in the country shades
To the homely dairy maids,
For a country fidler's fees,
"Clouted cream, and bread and cheese."
I, no skill in Numbers had,
More than every Shepherd's Lad,
Till She taught me Strains that were
Pleasing to her gentle ear.
Her fair splendour and her worth;
From obscureness, drew me forth;
And because I had no Muse,
She herself deigned to infuse
All the skill by which I climb
To these praises in my rhyme.
Which if she had pleased to add
To that, Art, sweet DRAYTON had;
Or that happy Swain, that shall
Sing _Britannia's Pastoral_;
Or to theirs, whose verse set forth
ROSALYND's and STELLA's worth;
They had doubled all their skill
Gainèd on APOLLO's hill:
And as much more set Her forth,
As I'm short of them in worth:
They had, unto heights aspired,
Might have justly been admired,
And, in such brave Strains had moved,
As, of all, had been approved.
I must praise Her, as I may!
Which I do, mine own rude way,
Sometimes setting forth her glories
By unheard-of allegories.

Think not, though, my Muse now sings
Mere absurd or feignèd things!
If to gold, I like her hair;
Or to stars, her eyes so fair:
Though I praise her skin by snow;
Or, by pearls, her double-row;
'Tis that you might gather thence
Her unmatchèd excellence.
Eyes as fair (for eyes) hath She
As stars fair, for Stars may be.
And each part as fair doth show
In its kind, as white in Snow.
'Tis no grace to her, at all;
If her hair, I, Sunbeams call.
For, were there power in Art,
So to portrait every part,
All men might those beauties see
As they do appear to me:
I would scorn to make compare
With the glorious'st things that are,
Nought I e'er saw, fair enow
But the Hair, the hair to show:
Yet some think him over bold
That compares it but to gold.
He, from Reason seems to err,
Who, commending of his Dear,
Gives her lips, the rubies' hue;
Or by pearls, her teeth doth shew:
But what pearls, what rubies can
Seem so lovely fair to man,
As her lips, whom he doth love,
When in sweet discourse they move?
Or her lovelier teeth, the while
She doth bless him with a smile?
Stars, indeed, fair creatures be!
Yet, amongst us, where is he
Joys not more, the while he lies
Sunning in his mistress' eyes,
Than in all the glimmering light
Of a starry winter's night?
Him, to flatter, most suppose,
That prefers before the rose,
Or the lilies while they grow,
Or the flakes of new-fall'n snow,
Her complexion, whom he loveth:
And yet this, my Muse approveth.
For in such a beauty, meets
Unexpressèd moving sweets,
That, the like unto them, no man
Ever saw but in a Woman.
Look on moon! on stars! or sun!
All GOD's creatures overrun!
See, if all of them presents
To your mind, such sweet contents;
Or if you, from them can take,
Ought that may a beauty make,
Shall, one half, so pleasing prove
As is hers, whom you do love!
For, indeed, if there had been
Other mortal beauties seen,
Objects for the love of man;
Vain was their Creation then!
Yea, if this could well be granted,
ADAM might, his EVE have wanted!
But a Woman is the creature,
Whose proportion with our nature
Best agrees; and whose perfections
Sympathise with our affections:
And, not only find our Senses
Pleasure in their excellences;
But our Reason also knows
Sweetness in them, that outgoes
Human wit to comprehend!
Much more, truly to commend!
Note the beauty of any Eye!
And, if ought you praise it by,
Leave such Passion in your mind:
Let my Reason's Eye be blind!
Mark if ever red or white,
Anywhere, gave such delight,
As when they have taken place
In a worthy woman's face!
He that so much hath not noted,
Will not! or is grown besotted.
Such as lovers are, conceive
What impressions beauty leaves!
And those hearts that fire have took
By a love-inflaming look:
Those believe, what here I say!
And suppose not that I stray
In a word, by setting forth
Any praise beyond true worth!
And yet, wherefore should I care
What another's censures are?
Since I know Her to be such
As no praise can be too much.
All that see Her, will agree
In the self-same mind with me;
If their Wit be worth the having
Or their Judgement merit craving.
And the man that kens Her not,
Speaks, at best, he knows not what;
So his envy, or goodwill,
Neither doth her good, nor ill.
Then, fools' cavils I disdain!
And call back my Muse again,
To decipher out the rest,
For I have too long digressed.

This is She, in whom there meets
All variety of sweets!
An Epitome of all
That on earth, we, Fair may call.
Nay, yet more, I dare aver.
He that is possessed of Her,
Shall, at once, all pleasure find,
That is reaped from Womankind.
O, what man would further range,
That in one, might find such change?
What dull eye, such worth can see,
And not sworn a lover be?
Or, from whence was he, could prove
Such a monster in his love,
As, in thought, to use amiss
Such unequalled worth as this?
Pity 'twere, that such a creature
Phoenix-like, for matchless feature,
Should so suffer, or be blamed
With what, now, the Times are shamed.
Beauty (unto me, Divine!)
Makes my honest thoughts incline
Unto better things than that
Which the vulgar aimeth at.
And, I vow! I grieve to see
Any fair, and false to be;
Or when I, sweet pleasures find
Matched with a defilèd mind.
But, above all others, Her
So much doth my soul prefer,
That to him, whose ill desire
Should so nurse a lawless fire,
As to 'tempt to that which might
Dim her sacred virtue's light;
I could wish that he might die
Ere he did it! though 'twere I!
For, if She should hap to stray,
All this beauty would away!
And not her alone undo,
But kill him that praised her too!
But I know her Maker will
Keep her undistainèd still;
That ensuing Ages may
Pattern out, by Her, the way
To all goodness. And if Fate,
That appoints all things a date,
Hear me would; I'd wish that She
Might, for aye, preservèd be!
And that neither wasting cares,
Neither all-consuming years,
Might, from what She is, estrange her!
Or in mind or body change her!
For, O, why should envious Time
Perpetrate so vile a crime
As to waste, or wrong, or stain
What shall ne'er be matched again?
Much I hope it shall not be
For, if love deceive me not,
To that height of Fair she grows,
Age, or Sickness (Beauty's foes!)
Cannot so much wrong it there,
But enough there will appear
Ever worthy to be loved:
And that heart shall more be moved
(Where there is a judging eye)
With those prints it doth espy
Of her Beauty wronged by Time,
Than by others, in their prime.
One advantage she hath more
That adds grace to all before.
It is this. Her Beauty's fame
Hath not done her Honour shame,
For where Beauty we do find,
Envy still is so unkind,
That although their virtues are
Such as pass their beauties far,
Yet, on Slander's rocks they be
Shipwrecked, oftentimes, we see;
And are subject to the wrongs
Of a thousand spiteful tongues:
When the greatest fault they had
Was, that some would make them bad!
And not finding them for action,
Sought for vengeance by detraction.
But her Beauty, sure, no tongue
Is so villainous to wrong!
Never did the jealous'st ear
Any muttering rumour hear
That might cause the least suspects
Of indifferent defects.
And, which somewhat stranger is,
They, whose slanders few can miss
(Though set on by Evil Will
And Habituated Ill)
Nothing can of Her invent
Whence to frame disparagement.
Which, if we respect the crimes
Of these loose injurious Times,
Doth not only truly prove
Great discretion in her love;
And that she hath lived upright,
In each jealous tongue's despite:
But it must be understood
That her private thoughts are good.
Yea! 'tis an apparent sign
That her Beauty is Divine!
And that angels have a care
Men's polluting tongues should spare
To defile, what GOD hath given
To be dear to Earth and Heaven!

Tell me, you that hear me now!
Is there any one of you
Wanteth feeling of affection?
Or that loves not such perfection?
Can there be so dull an ear
As of so much worth to hear,
And not seriously incline
To this saint-like friend of mine?
If there be, the fault doth lie
In my artless Poesy.
For if I could reach the Strain
Which, methinks, I might obtain;
Or but make my Measures fly
Equal with my Fantasy:
I would not permit an ear
To attend unravished here;
If but so much sense it knew,
As the blocks that ORPHEUS drew.
Think on this description well!
And your noblest Ladies tell
"Which of you (that worth can see),
This my Mistress would not be?"
You brave English! who have run
From the rising of the sun,
Till, in travelling, you found
Where he doth conclude his round!
You! that have the beauties seen
Which, in farthest lands have been;
And surveyed the fair resorts
Of the French and Spanish Courts,
With the rest that Fame renowns
In the rich Trans-Alpine towns;
Do not (with our brainless fry,
That admire each novelty)
Wrong your country's fame in ought!
But, here, freely speak your thought!
And I durst presume you'll swear
She's not matched anywhere.
Gallants! you that would so fain
Nymphs' and Ladies' loves obtain!
You that strive to serve and please
Fairest Queens and Empresses!
Tell me this, and tell me right!
If you would not, so you might,
Leave them all, despised, to prove
What contents are in her love?
Could your fathers ever tell
Of a Nymph, did more excel?
Or hath any Story told
Of the like, in times of old?
DIDO was not such a one!
Nor the Trojans' paragon!
Though they, so much favour found,
As to have their honours crowned
By the best of Poets' pens,
Ever known before or since.
For had DIDO been so fair;
Old ANCHISES's noble heir,
JOVE's command had disobeyed!
And with her, in Carthage stayed:
Where he would have quite foreswore
Seeing the Lavinian shore.
Or had LEDA's daughter been,
When she was the Spartan Queen,
Equal with this Lovely One!
MENELAUS had never gone
From her sight so far away,
As to leave her for a prey;
And his room to be possesst
By her wanton Phrygian guest.

But lest yet, among you some,
Think She may behind these come;
Stay a little more, and hear me!
In another Strain I'll rear me!
I'll unmask a Beauty, now,
Which to kiss, the gods may bow!
And so feelingly will move,
That your souls shall fall in love!
I have, yet, the best behind;
Her most fair, unequalled Mind!
This that I have, here, exprest
Is but that which veils the rest!
An incomparable Shrine
Of a Beauty more Divine!

Whereof, ere I farther speak;
Off again, my Song I'll break.
And if you, among the roses,
Which yon quickset hedge incloses,
Will, with plucking flowers, beguile
Tedious-seeming Time awhile;
Till I step to yonder green,
Whence the sheep so plain are seen,
I will be returnèd ere
You, an hour have stayèd there!
And, excuse me now, I pray!
Though I rudely go away!
For affairs I have to do,
Which unless I look into;
I may sing out Summer here!
Like the idle grasshopper:
And at Winter, hide my head!
Or else fast, till I am dead!
Yet if rustic Pastoral Measures
Can ought add unto your pleasures;
I will leave you some of those,
Which it pleased me to compose
When despairing fits were over,
And I, made a happy lover,
Exercised my Loving Passion
In another kind of fashion;
Than to utter, I devised,
When I feared to be despised.
Those shall lie in gage for me,
Till I back returnèd be.
And in writing, here, you have them!
Either sing! or read! or leave them!

_SONNET I._

_Admire not, Shepherd's Boy!_
_Why I my pipe forbear?_
_My Sorrows and my Joy_
_Beyond expression are!_
_Though others may_
_In Songs display_
_Their Passions, when they woo;_
_Yet, mine do fly_
_A pitch too high_
_For Words to reach unto._

_If such weak thoughts as those_
_Which others' Fancies moves;_
_Or if my heart did 'close_
_But common Strains of Love:_
_Or Passions' store_
_Learned me no more_
_To feel, than others do:_
_I'd paint my cares_
_As black as theirs,_
_And teach my lines to woo!_

_But, O, thrice happy! ye_
_Whose mean conceit is dull!_
_You, from those thoughts are free!_
_That stuff my breast so full._
_My love's excess_
_Lets to express_
_What Songs are usèd to:_
_And my delights_
_Take such high flights,_
_My joys will me undo._

_I have a Love that's fair,_
_Rich, wise, and nobly born;_
_She's True Perfection's Heir,_
_Holds nought but vice in scorn._
_A heart to find,_
_More chaste, more kind,_
_Our plains afford no mo._
_Of her degree,_
_No blab I'll be;_
_For doubt some Prince should woo._

_And yet, I do not fear,_
_(Though She, my meanness knows)_
_The willow branch to wear;_
_No, nor the yellow hose!_
_For if great JOVE_
_Should sue for love,_
_She would not me forego._
_Resort I may,_
_By night or day,_
_Which braver dare not do!_

_You Gallants, born to pelf!_
_To lands', to titles' store!_
_(I'm born but to Myself,_
_Nor do I care for more)_
_Add to your earth!_
_Wealth! honours! birth!_
_And all you can, thereto!_
_You cannot prove_
_That height of love_
_Which I, in meanness, do!_

_Great men have helps, to gain_
_Those favours they implore:_
_Which, though I win with pain,_
_I find my joys the more._
_Each clown may rise_
_And climb the skies_
_When he hath found a stair;_
_But joy to him_
_That dares to climb,_
_And hath no help, but air!_

_Some say that "Love repents_
_Where fortunes disagree."_
_I know the high'st contents_
_From low beginnings be._
_My love's unfeigned_
_To Her that deigned_
_From greatness, stoop thereto._
_She loves, 'cause I_
_So mean, dared try_
_Her better worth to woo._

_And yet although much joy,_
_My fortune seems to bless;_
_'Tis mixt with more annoy_
_That I shall e'er express._
_For, with much pain_
_Did I obtain_
_The Gem I'll ne'er forego!_
_Which yet I dare_
_Nor shew, nor wear!_
_And that breeds all my woe._

_But fie! my foolish tongue!_
_How losely now it goes!_
_First, let my knell be rung_
_Ere I do more disclose!_
_Mount thoughts on high!_
_Cease words! For why?_
_My meaning to divine;_
_To those I leave,_
_That can conceive_
_So brave a Love as mine._

_And, now, no more I'll sing_
_Among my fellow swains;_
_Nor groves, nor hills shall ring_
_With echoes of my plains._
_My Measures be_
_Confused, you see!_
_And will not suit thereto:_
_'Cause I have more_
_Brave thoughts in store_
_Than words can reach unto._

_SONNET II._

_Hence, away! you Syrens! Leave me!_
_And unclasp your wanton arms!_
_Sugared words shall ne'er deceive me,_
_Though thou prove a thousand charms._
_Fie! fie! forbear!_
_No common snare_
_Could ever my affection chain._
_Your painted baits_
_And poor deceits_
_Are all bestowed on me in vain!_