Fair VIRTUE, THE MISTRESS OF PHIL'ARETE. Written by Geo. Wither.

nihil veremur Istos, quid in platea, modo huc, modo illuc In re pretereunt sua occupati.

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.

Hail! thou Fairest of all Creatures, Upon whom the sun doth shine! Model of all rarest features, And perfections most divine! Thrice, All Hail! And blessed be, Those that love and honour thee! Of thy worth, this rural Story, Thy unworthy Swain hath penned; And to thy ne'er-ending glory, These plain Numbers doth commend: Which ensuing Times shall warble, When 'tis lost, that's writ in marble. Though thy praise, and high deservings, Cannot all, be here expressed; Yet my love and true observings Some way, ought to be professed! And where greatest love we see, Highest things attemptèd be. By thy Beauty, I have gainèd To behold the best perfections; By thy Love, I have obtainèd To enjoy the best affections. And my tongue to sing thy praise! Love and Beauty thus doth raise. What although in rustic shadows, I, a Shepherd's breeding had! And confinèd to these meadows, So in home-spun russet clad! Such as I, have, now and then, Dared as much as greater men. Though a stranger to the Muses, Young, obscurèd, and despised; Yet such Art, thy love infuses! That I, thus, have poetised. Read! and be content to see Thy admirèd power in me! And O grant, thou Sweetest Beauty! (Wherewith ever Earth was graced), That this Trophy of my duty May, with favour be embraced! And disdain not, in these rhymes, To be sung to after Times! Let those doters on Apollo, That adore the Muses so, (And, like geese, each other follow) See what Love alone can do! For in love lays, Grove and Field; Nor to Schools, nor Courts will yield! On this Glass of thy Perfection, If that any women pry; Let them, thereby, take direction To adorn themselves thereby! And if aught amiss they view; Let them dress themselves anew! Young men shall, by this, acquainted With the truest Beauties, grow; So the counterfeit, or painted, They may shun, when them they know. But the Way, all will not find; For some eyes have, yet are blind. Thee! entirely! I have loved: So thy Sweetness on me wrought. Yet thy Beauty never moved Ill temptations in my thought. But, still, did Beauty's ray Sun-like, drive those fogs away. Those, that Mistresses are named; And for that, suspected be: Shall not need to be ashamed, If they pattern take, by Thee! Neither shall their Servants fear, Favours, openly to wear. Thou, to no man favour deignest! But what's fitting to bestow. Neither Servants entertainest! That can ever wanton grow. For, the more they look on Thee, Their Desires still better be! This, thy Picture, therefore, show I Naked unto every eye: Yet no fear of rival know I, Neither touch of jealousy. For the more make love to Thee! I, the more shall pleased be. I am no Italian lover That will mew thee in a gaol; But thy Beauty I discover, English-like, without a veil. If thou mayest be won away: Win and wear thee, he that may! Yet in this, Thou may'st believe me! (So indifferent, though I seem): Death with tortures would not grieve me More, than loss of thy esteem! For if Virtue me forsake! All a scorn of me will make. Then, as I, on Thee relying, Do no changing fear in Thee! So, by my defects supplying; From all changing, keep thou me! That unmatched we may prove: Thou, for Beauty! I, for Love! Then, while their loves are forgotten, Who to Pride and Lust were slaves; And their Mistresses, quite rotten, Lie, unthought on, in their graves: King and Queens, in their despite, Shall, to mind us, take delight.

Two pretty rills do meet; and meeting, make Within one valley, a large silver lake: About whose banks, the fertile mountains stood In ages passèd, bravely crowned with wood; Which lending cold-sweet shadows, gave it grace To be accounted Cynthia's bathing-place. And from her father Neptune's brackish Court, Fair Thetis thither, often, would resort; Attended by the fishes of the sea, Which, in these sweeter waters came to play. There, would the Daughter of the Sea God dive: And thither came the Land Nymphs, every eve, To wait upon her; bringing for her brows, Rich garlands of sweet flowers, and beechy boughs. For pleasant was that Pool;[10] and near it, then, Was neither rotten marsh, nor boggy fen. It was not overgrown with boisterous sedge, Nor grew there rudely, then, along the edge A bending willow, nor a prickly bush, Nor broad-leafed flag, nor reed, nor knotty rush: But here, well ordered, was a grove with bowers; There, grassy plots set round about with flowers. Here, you might, through the water, see the land Appear, strewed o'er with white or yellow sand. Yon, deeper was it; and the wind, by whiffs, Would make it rise, and wash the little cliffs; On which, oft pluming, sate, unfrighted then, The gagling wild goose, and the snow-white swan, With all those flocks of fowls, which, to this day, Upon those quiet waters breed and play. For, though those excellences wanting be Which once it had, it is the same that we, By transposition, name the Ford of Arle:[11] And out of which, along a chalky marl, That river trills, whose waters wash the fort In which brave Arthur kept his royal Court.[12] North-east, not far from this great Pool, there lies A tract of beechy mountains, that arise, With leisurely ascending, to such height As from their tops, the warlike Isle of Wight You, in the Ocean's bosom, may espy: Though near two hundred furlongs thence it lie. The pleasant way, as up those hills you climb, Is strewed o'er with marjoram and thyme, Which grow unset. The hedgerows do not want The cowslip, violet, primrose; nor a plant That freshly scents: as birch, both green and tall; Low sallows, on whose bloomings, bees do fall; Fair woodbines which, about the hedges twine; Smooth privet, and the sharp-sweet eglantine; With many more, whose leaves and blossoms fair, The Earth adorn, and oft perfume the Air. When you, unto the highest do attain; An intermixture both of wood and plain, You shall behold! which, though aloft it lie, Hath downs for sheep, and fields for husbandry: So much, at least, as little, needeth more; If not enough to merchandise their store. In every row, hath Nature planted there; Some banquet for the hungry passenger. For here, the hasle-nut and filbird grows; There, bulloes; and little further, sloes. On this hand, standeth a fair wielding-tree; On that, large thickets of black cherries be. The shrubby fields are raspice orchards, there; The new felled woods, like strawberry gardens are. And had the King of Rivers blest those hills, With some small number of such pretty rills As flow elsewhere, Arcadia had not seen A sweeter plot of earth than this had been. For what offence, this place was scanted so Of springing waters, no record doth show; Nor have they old tradition left, that tells; But till this day, at fifty-fathom wells, The Shepherds drink. And strange it was, to hear Of any Swain that ever livèd there, Who, either in a Pastoral Ode had skill, Or knew to set his fingers to a quill: For rude they were, who there inhabited, And to a dull contentment being bred, They no such Art esteemed; nor took much heed Of anything the world without them, did. Ev'n there, and in the least frequented place Of all these mountains, is a little space Of pleasant ground hemmed in with dropping trees, And those so thick, that Phœbus scarcely sees The earth they grow on, once in all the year; Nor what is done among the shadows there: Along those lovely paths, (where never came Report of Pan's, or of Apollo's name; Nor rumour of the Muses, till of late) Some Nymphs were wandering, and, by chance or fate, Upon a laund[13] arrived, where they met The little flock of Pastor Philaret. They were a troop of Beauties known well nigh Through all the plains of happy Brittany. A Shepherd's Lad was He, obscure and young, Who, being first that ever there had sung, In homely verse, expressèd country loves, And only told them to the beechy groves; As if to sound his name, he never meant, Beyond the compass that his sheepwalk went. They saw him not, nor them perceivèd he; For in the branches of a maple tree, He shrouded sate: and taught the hollow hill To echo forth the music of his quill; Whose tattling voice redoubled so the sound, That where he was concealed, they quickly found. And there, they heard him sing a Madrigal That soon betrayed his cunning to them all. Full rude it was, no doubt, but such a Song, Those rustic and obscurèd shades among, Was never heard, they say, by any ear, Until his Muses had inspired him there. Though mean and plain, his country habit seemed, Yet by his Song, the Ladies rightly deemed That either he had travellèd abroad, Where Swains of better knowledge make abode; Or else, that some brave Nymph who used that grove, Had deignèd to enrich him with her love. Approaching nearer, therefore, to this Swain, Them, him saluted; and he, them again, In such good fashion, as well seemed to be According to their state, and his degree. Which greetings being passed, and much chat Concerning him, the place, with this and that; He, to an arbour doth those Beauties bring, Where he, them prays to sit; they, him to sing, And to express that untaught Country Art, In setting forth the Mistress of his heart; Which they o'erheard him practice, when unseen, He thought no ear had witness of it been. At first, as much unable, he refused, And seemèd willing to have been excused From such a task, "For trust me, Nymphs!" quoth he, "I would not purposely uncivil be, Nor churlish in denying what you crave! But, as I hope great Pan my flock will save! I rather wish that I might, heard of none, Enjoy my music by myself alone; Or that the murmurs of some little flood, Joined with the friendly echoes of the wood, Might be the impartial umpires of my wit; Than vent it where the world might hear of it. And doubtless, I had sung less loud while-ere, Had I but thought of any such so near. Not that I either wish obscurified Her matchless Beauty, or desire to hide Her sweet Perfections. For, by Love I swear! The utmost happiness I aim at here Is but to compass Worth enough to raise A high built Trophy equal to her praise. Which, fairest Ladies! I shall hope in vain, For I was meanly bred on yonder plain! And though I can well prove my blood to be Derived from no ignoble Stems, to me: Yet Fate and Time them so obscured and crosst That with their fortunes, their esteem is lost; And whatsoe'er repute I strive to win, Now from myself alone, it must begin. For I have no estate, nor friends, nor fame, To purchase either credit to my name, Or gain a good opinion; though I do Ascend the height I shall aspire unto. If any of those virtues yet I have Which honour to my predecessors gave; There's all, that's left me! And though some contemn Such needy jewels: yet it was for them, My Fair One did my humble suit affect; And deignèd my adventurous love, respect: And by their help, I passage hope to make, Through such poor things as I dare undertake. But, you may say, 'What goodly thing, alas, Can my despisèd meanness bring to pass? Or what great Monument of Honour raise To Virtue, in these vice abounding days? In which, a thousand times, more honour finds, Ignoble gotten Means, than noble Minds.' Indeed, the world affordeth small reward For honest minds, and therefore her regard I seek not after; neither do I care, If I have bliss, how others think I fare! For, so my thoughts have rest; it irks not me, Though none, but I, do know how blest they be. Here, therefore, in these groves and hidden plains, I pleasèd, sit alone, and many strains I carol to myself, these hills among, Where no man comes to interrupt my song. Whereas, if my rude Lays, make known I should, Beyond their home; perhaps, some carpers would (Because they have not heard from whence we be) Traduce, abuse, and scoff both them and me. For if our great and learned Shepherds (who Are graced with Wit, and Fame, and Favours too) With much ado, escape uncensured may; What hopes have I to pass unscorched, I pray! Who yet unto the Muses am unknown, And live unhonoured, here, among mine own? A gadding humour seldom taketh me, To range out further than yon mountains be; Nor hath applausive Rumour borne my name Upon the spreading wings of sounding Fame: Nor can I think, fair Nymphs! that you resort For other purpose, than to make a sport At that simplicity, which shall appear Among the rude untutored Shepherds here. I know, that you, my noble Mistress ween, At best, a homely milkmaid on the green, Or some such country lass as taskèd stays At servile labour until holidays. For poor men's virtues so neglected grow, And are now prizèd at a rate so low; As, 'tis impossible, you should be brought To let it with belief possess your thought, That any Nymph, whose love might worthy be, Would deign to cast respective eyes on me. You see I live, possessing none of those Gay things, with which the world enamoured grows. To woo a Courtly Beauty, I have neither Rings, bracelets, jewels; nor a scarf, nor feather. I use no double-dyèd cloth to wear; No scrip embroidered richly, do I bear: No silken belt, nor sheephook laid with pearls, To win me favour from the shepherds' girls. No Place of Office or Command I keep, But this my little flock of homely sheep. And, in a word; the sum of all my pelf Is this, I am the Master of myself! No doubt, in Courts of Princes you have been! And all the pleasures of the Palace seen! There, you beheld brave Courtly passages Between Heroes and their Mistresses. You, there, perhaps, in presence of the King, Have heard his learned Bards and Poets sing! And what contentment, then, can wood or field, To please your curious understandings yield? I know you walkèd hither, but to prove What silly Shepherds do conceive of love? Or to make trial how our simpleness, Can Passions' force, or Beauty's power express? And when you are departed, you will joy To laugh, or descant on the Shepherd's Boy! But yet, I vow! if all the Art I had Could any more esteem or glory add To her unmatchèd worth; I would not weigh What you intended," "Prithee, Lad!" quoth they, "Distrustful of our courtesy do not seem! Her nobleness can never want esteem, Nor thy concealèd Measures be disgraced; Though in a meaner person they were placed. If thy too modestly reservèd quill But reach that height, which we suppose it will; Thy meanness or obscureness cannot wrong The Nymph thou shalt eternize in thy Song. For, as it higher rears thy glory, that A noble Mistress thou hast aimèd at; So, more unto her honour it will prove That (whilst deceiving shadows others move) Her constant eyes could pass unmovèd by The subtle Time's bewitching bravery; And those obscurèd virtues love in thee, That with despisèd meanness clouded be. Now then, for Her sweet sake! whose beauteous eye Hath filled thy Soul with heavenly Poesy; Sing in her praise some new inspirèd Strain! And if, within our power, there shall remain A favour to be done to pleasure thee; Ask and obtain it, whatsoe'er it be!" "Fair Ladies!" quoth the Lad, "such words as those, Compel me can": and therewithal he rose, Returned them thanks, obeisance made; and then Down sate again, and thus to sing began.

You that, at a blush, can tell Where the best perfections dwell! And the substance can conjecture, By a shadow or a picture! Come and try, if you, by this, Know my Mistress, who she is? For, though I am far unable Here to match Apelles' table; Or draw Zeuxes' cunning lines (Who so painted Bacchus' vines That the hungry birds did muster Round the counterfeited cluster); Though I vaunt not to inherit Petrarch's yet unequalled spirit; Nor to quaff the sacred well Half so deep as Astrophel; Though the much-commended Celia, Lovely Laura, Stella, Delia, (Who, in former times, excelled) Live in lines unparalleled, Making us believe, 'twere much Earth should yield another such: Yet, assisted but by Nature, I assay to paint a Creature, Whose rare worth, in future years, Shall be praised as much as theirs. Nor let any think amiss That I have presumèd this; For a gentle Nymph is She, And hath often honoured me. She's a noble spark of light In each part so exquisite; Had she, in times passèd been, They had made her, Beauty's Queen. Then, shall coward Despair Let the most unblemished Fair, (For default of some poor Art, Which her favour may impart) And the sweetest Beauty fade That was ever born or made? Shall, of all the fair ones, She, Only so unhappy be, As to live in such a Time, In so rude, so dull a clime; Where no spirit can ascend High enough, to apprehend Her unprizèd excellence, Which lies hid from common sense? Never shall a stain so vile Blemish this, our Poets' Isle! I myself will rather run And seek out for Helicon! I will wash, and make me clean In the waves of Hippocrene! And, in spite of Fortune's bars, Climb the Hill that braves the stars! Where, if I can get no Muse, That will any skill infuse, Or my just attempt prefer; I will make a Muse of Her! Whose kind heat shall soon distil Art into my ruder quill. By her favour, I will gain Help to reach so rare a Strain; That the Learned Hills shall wonder How the Untaught Valleys under, Met with raptures so divine; Without the knowledge of the Nine. I, that am a Shepherd's Swain Piping on the lowly plain, And no other music can Than what learned I have of Pan; I, who never sang the Lays, That deserve Apollo's bays; Hope, not only here to frame Measures which shall keep Her name From the spite of wasting Times: But (enshrined in sacred rhymes) Place her, where her form divine Shall, to after ages, shine; And, without respect of odds, Vie renown with Demi-Gods. Then, whilst of her praise I sing; Harken Valley! Grove! and Spring! Listen to me, sacred Fountains! Solitary Rocks! and Mountains! Satyrs! and you wanton Elves That do nightly sport yourselves! Shepherds! you that, on the reed, Whistle, while your lambs do feed! Agèd Woods and Floods! that know What hath been, long times, ago! Your more serious notes among, Hear, how I can, in my Song, Set a Nymph's perfection forth! And, when you have heard her worth, Say, if such another Lass Ever known to mortal was! Listen Lordlings! you that most Of your outward honours boast! And you Gallants! (that think scorn, We, to lowly fortunes born, Should attain to any graces, Where you look for sweet embraces) See! if all those vanities Whereon your affection lies; Or the titles, or the powers, (By your fathers' virtues, yours) Can your Mistresses enshrine In such State, as I will mine! Who am forced to importune Favours, in despite of Fortune. Beauties, listen! chiefly you That yet know not Virtue's due! You, that think there are no sports, Nor no honours, but in Courts! (Though of thousands, there live not Two, but die and are forgot). See, if any Palace yields Ought more glorious than the Fields! And consider well, if we May not, as high-flying be In our thoughts, as you that sing In the chambers of a King! See! if our contented minds, Whom Ambition never blinds, (We, that, clad in homespun gray, On our own sweet meadows play) Cannot honour, if we please, Where we list, as well as these! Or, as well, of worth approve! Or, with equal Passions, love! See, if beauties may not touch Our soon-loving hearts as much! Or our services effect Favours, with as true respect, In your good conceits to rise, As our painted butterflies! And you, Fairest! give her room, When your Sex's Pride doth come! For that subject of my Song, I invoke these groves among To be witness of the Lays Which I carol in her praise. And because she soon will see If my Measures faulty be, Whilst I chant them, let each rhyme Keep a well-proportioned time; And with Strains, that are divine, Meet her thoughts in every line! Let each accent there, present To her soul, a new content! And, with ravishings, so seize her, She may feel the height of pleasure! You enchanting Spells, that lie Lurking in sweet Poesy! (And to none else will appear, But to those, that worthy are) Make Her know! there is a power Ruling in these charms of yours; That transcends, a thousand heights, Ordinary men's delights; And can leave within her breast Pleasures not to be exprest! Let her linger on each Strain As if She would hear't again! And were loath to part from thence Till She had the quintessence Out of each conceit, she meets! And had stored her, with those sweets! Make Her, by your Art to see! I, that am her Swain, was he Unto whom all beauties here, Were alike and equal dear: That I could of freedom boast, And of favours with the most; Yet, now, nothing more affecting, Sing of Her! the rest neglecting. Make her heart, with full compassion, Judge the merit of True Passion! And, as much my love prefer, As I strive to honour Her! Lastly, you that will, I know, Hear me, whe'er you should or no! You, that seek to turn all flowers, By your breath's infectious powers, Into such rank loathsome weeds, As your dunghill nature breeds! Let your hearts be chaste! or here Come not, till you purge them clear! Mark! and mark then, what is worst! For whate'er it seem at first, If you bring a modest mind, You shall nought immodest find! But if any, too severe, Hap to lend a partial ear, Or, out of his blindness, yawn Such a word as, O profane! Let him know thus much from me, If here's ought profane, 'tis he Who applies these excellences Only to the touch of Senses; And, dim sighted, cannot see Where the Soul of this may be! Yet, that no offence may grow; 'Tis their choice, to stay or go! Or if any for despite Rather comes, than for delight; For his presence, I'll not pray, Nor his absence. Come he may! Critics shall admitted be, Though I know they'll carp at me: For I neither fear nor care What in this, their censures are. If the Verse here used, be Their dislike. It liketh me! If my Method they deride, Let them know Love is not tied, In his free discourse, to choose Such strict Rules as Arts-men use. These may prate of Love, but they Know him not! For he will play From the matter, now and then! Off and on! and off again! If this Prologue, tedious seem, Or the rest too long they deem; Let them know my love they win, Though they go, ere they begin: Just as if they should attend me Till the last; and, there, commend me. For I will, for no man's pleasure, Change a Syllable or Measure; Neither for their praises add Ought to mend what they think bad. Since it never was my fashion To make Work of Recreation. Pedants shall not tie my strains To our antique Poets' veins; As if we, in latter days, Knew to love, but not to praise. Being born as free as these, I will Sing, as I shall please! Who, as well new paths may run, As the best before have done. I disdain to make my Song, For their pleasures, short or long; If I please, I'll end it here! If I list, I'll sing this year! And, though none regard of it, By myself, I pleased can sit; And, with that contentment, cheer me, As if half the world did hear me. But because I am assured All are either so conjured, As they will my Song attend, With the patience of a friend; Or, at least, take note that I Care not much. Now willingly, I, these goodly colours lay, Wind, nor rain shall wear away; But retain their purest glass, When the statues made of brass, For some Prince's more renown, Shall be wholly overthrown; Or consumed with cankered rust, Lie neglected in the dust. And my Reason gives direction When I sing of such Perfection, First, those beauties to declare, Which (though hers) without her are. To advance her fame, I find, Those are of a triple kind. Privileges she hath store At her birth, since, and before. From before her birth, the fame, She of high descents may claim, Whose well-gotten honours may Her deserving more display, For, from heavenly race she springs, And from high and mighty Kings. At her birth, She was, by Fate, In those Parents fortunate, Whose estate and virtues stood Answerable to their blood. Then the Nation, Time, and Place To the rest, may add some grace. For the People, with the Clime, And the fashions of the Time; (In all which, she hath been blest, By enjoying them at best) Do not only mend the features, But, oft times, make better natures: Whereas, those who hap not so, Both deformed, and ruder grow. In these climes, and latter days, To deserve sweet Beauty's praise, (Where so many females dwell, That each seemeth to excel) In more glory twenty-fold Than it was in days of old: When our ordinary fair ones Might have been esteemèd rare ones; And have made a subject fit, For their bravest Poet's wit. Little rushlights, or a spark Sheweth fairly in the dark; And to him occasion gives, That from sight of greater, lives, To adore it. Yet the ray Of one torch will take away All the light of twenty more That shined very well before. So, those petty Beauties which Made the Times before us, rich; Though but sparkles, seemed a flame Which hath been increased by Fame, And their true affections, who, Better, never lived to know: Whereas, Her, if they had seen She had, sure, adorèd been! And taught Ages past, to sing Sweeter in the Sonneting. Such a Ray, so clear! so bright! Hath outshinèd all the light Of a thousand, such as theirs Who were then esteemèd Stars; And would have enlightened near Half the world's wide hemisphere. She is fairest, that may pass For a fair one, where the Lass Trips it on the country green; That may equal Sparta's Queen. Where, in every street, you see Throngs of Nymphs and Ladies be, That are fair enough to move Angels, and enamour Jove. She must matchless features bring That now moves a Muse to sing: When as one small Province may Shew more beauties in one day, Than the half of Europe could Breed them, in an age of old. Such is She! and such a lot Hath her rare perfection got! Since her birth (to make the colour Of so true a Beauty fuller; And to give a better grace To that sweetness in the face) She hath all the furtherance had, Noble educations add. And not only knoweth all, Which our Ladies, Courtship call; With those knowledges that do Grace her sex, and suit thereto: But She hath attained to find (What is rare with Womankind) Excellences, whereby She May in Soul delighted be; And reap more contentment than One of twenty thousand can. By this means, hath bettered been All without her, and within; For it hath, by adding Arts, To adorn her native parts, Raised to a noble flame, (Which shall lighten forth her fame) Those dear sparks of sacred fire, Which the Muses did inspire At her birth: that She, complete, Might, with them befit a seat. But, perhaps, I do amiss, To insist so long on this. These are superficial things; And but slender shadowings To the work I have in hand. Neither can you understand What Her excellence may be, Till Herself described you see! Nor can mine or any pen Paint her half so lovely, than As She is indeed. For, here, Might those deities appear, Which young Paris viewed at will, Naked, upon Ida hill! That I, from those Three might take All their beauties, One to make; (Those, no question! well compact, Would have made up one exact) Something, yet, we miss, of might To express her Sweetness right. Juno's majesty would fit; Venus' beauty, Pallas' wit Might have brought to pattern hers In some shewed particulars; But they never can express Her whole frame or worthiness With those excellences, which Make both Soul and Body rich. Pallas, sometimes, was untoward, Venus wanton, Juno froward: Yea all three, infected were With such faults as women are; And, though falsely deified, Frailties had, which She'll deride. By Her Self, must therefore She; Or by nothing patterned be! And I hope to paint her so, By Her Self, that you shall know I have served no common Dame, Of mean worth, or vulgar fame! But a Nymph, that's fairer than Pen or pencil, portrait can! And to-morrow, if you stray Back again this uncouth way, I, my simple Art will show: But the time prevents me now. For, except at yonder glade, All the laund is under shade; That, before these ewes be told; Those my wethers, in the fold; Ten young weanlings driven down To the well beneath the town; And my lambkins changèd from Brome leaze, to the mead at home; 'Twill be far in night: and so, I shall make my father woe For my stay; and be in fear Somewhat is mischancèd here. On your way, I'll, therefore, bring you! And a Song or two I'll sing you! Such as I, half in despair, Made when first I wooed my Fair: Whereunto, my boy shall play; That my voice assist, it may!

Come, my Muse! If thou disdain! All my comforts are bereft me! No delight doth now remain; I, nor friend, nor flock have left me. They are scattered on the plain. Men, alas, are too severe, And make scoffs at lovers' fortunes. Women, hearted like the bear; That regards not who importunes, But doth all in pieces tear. If I should my sorrows shew Unto rivers, springs, or fountains; They are senseless to my woe: So are groves, and rocks, and mountains. Then, O, whither shall I go? Means of harbour, me to shield From despair; ah, know you any? For no city, grange, nor field, Though they lend content to many, Unto me, can comfort yield. I have kept, and sighèd too, For Compassion to make trial; Yea, done all that words can do, Yet have nothing but denial. What way is there, then, to woo? Shall I swear, protest, and vow? So have I done, most extremely! Should I die? I know not how! For from all attempts unseemly, Love and Virtue keep me now. I have heard that Time prevails; But I fear me, 'tis a fable. Time, and all Endeavour fails! To bear more, my heart's unable; Yet none careth what it ails! Lines to some, have op'ed the door And got entrance for Affection. Words well spoken, much implore, By the Gestures' good direction: But a Look doth ten times more! 'Tis the Eye that only reads To the heart, Love's deepest Lectures! By a moving Look, it pleads More than common Sense conjectures, And a way to Pity leads. This I knowing, did observe; Both by Words and Looks complaining: Yet, for Pity I may starve! There's no hope of my obtaining, Till I better can deserve. Yea, and he that thinks to win By Desert, may be deceivèd! For they who have worthiest bin, Of their right, have been bereavèd; And a groom admitted in. Wherefore, Muse! to thee I call! Thou, since nothing else avails me, Must redeem me from my thrall! If thy sweet enchantment fails me; Then, adieu Love, Life, and all!

Tell me, my heart! What thoughts, these pantings move? My thoughts of Love! What flames are these, that set thee so on fire? Flames of Desire! What means hast thou, contentment's flower to crop? No means but Hope! Yet let us feed on Hope, and hope the best! For they, amid their griefs, are something blest, Whose thoughts, and flames, and means have such free scope, They may, at once, both Love, Desire, and Hope. But say! What fruit will love at last obtain? Fruitless Disdain! What will those hopes prove, which yet seem so fair? Hopeless Despair! What end shall run those Passions, out of breath? An endless Death! O can there be such cruelty in love? And doth my fortune so ungentle prove, She will no fruit, nor hope, nor end bequeath, But cruelest Disdain, Despair, and Death? Then what new study shall I now apply? Study to Die! How might I end my care, and die content? Care to Repent! And what good thoughts may make my end more holy? Think on thy Folly! Yes, so I will! and since my fate can give No hope, but ever without hope to live, My studies, cares, and thoughts, I'll all apply To weigh my Folly well! Repent! and Die!

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!

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 Phœnix'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.

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!"

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!

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!

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 Phœnix-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!

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.

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! I'm no slave to such as you be! Neither shall a snowy breast, Wanton eye, or lip of ruby Ever rob me of my rest! Go! go! Display Your beauty's ray To some o'ersoon enamoured Swain! Those common wiles Of sighs and smiles Are all bestowed on me in vain! I have elsewhere, vowed a duty; Turn away thy tempting eyes! Show me not a naked beauty! Those impostures I despise! My spirit loaths Where gaudy clothes And feigned oaths may love obtain! I love Her so, Whose look swears "No!" That all your labours will be vain! Can he prize the tainted posies Which on every breast are worn; That may pluck the spotless roses From their never-touchèd thorn? I can go rest On her sweet breast, That is the pride of Cynthia's train. Then hold your tongues! Your Mermaid songs Are all bestowed on me in vain! He's a fool, that basely dallies, Where each peasant mates with him! Shall I haunt the throngèd valleys, Whilst there's noble hills to climb? No, no! Though clowns Are scared with frowns; I know the best can but disdain: And those I'll prove! So shall your love Be all bestowed on me in vain! Yet I would not deign embraces With the greatest fairest She; If another shared those graces Which had been bestowed on me! I gave that One My love, where none Shall come to rob me of my gain. Your fickle hearts Make tears and Arts! And all bestowed on me in vain. I do scorn, to vow a duty, Where each lustful lad may woo: Give me Her, whose sun-like beauty, Buzzards dare not soar unto! She! She it is Affords that bliss! For which, I would refuse no pain. But such as you! Fond fools! adieu! You seek to capture me in vain! Proud she seemed, in the beginning, And disdained my looking on; But that "Coy One in the winning, Proves a True One, being won!" Whate'er betide She'll ne'er divide The favour She to me shall deign; But your fond love Will fickle prove! And all that trust in you, are vain! Therefore know! When I enjoy One, And for love employ my breath; She I court, shall be a Coy One, Though I win her with my death! A favour there, Few aim at, dare. And if, perhaps, some lover plain; She is not won Nor I undone By placing of my love in vain. Leave me! then, you Syrens! leave me! Seek no more to work my harms! Crafty wiles cannot deceive me; Who am proof against your charms! You labour may To lead astray The heart, that constant shall remain: And I, the while, Will sit and smile, To see you spend your time in vain.