E xquisite curiositie,
L ooke on thy selfe with iudging eye,
I f ought be faultie, leaue it;
S o delicate a phantasie
A s this, will straight perceiue it.
B ecause her temper is so fine,
E ndewèd with harmonies diuine;
T herefore if discord strike it,
H er true proportions doe repine,
A nd sadly do[176] mislike it.
R ight otherwise a pleasure sweet
E uer she takes in actions meet,
G racing with smiles such meetnesse;
I n her faire forehead, beames appeare,
N o Summer's day is halfe so cleare,
A dorn'd with halfe that sweetnesse.
HYMNE XIX.
Of the Organs of her Minde.
E clipsed she is, and her bright rayes.
L ie under vailes, yet many wayes
I s her faire forme reuealed;
S he diuersly her selfe conueyes,
A nd cannot be concealed.
B y instruments her powers appeare
E xceedingly well tun'd and cleare:
T his lute is still in measure,
H olds still in tune, euen like a spheare,
A nd yeelds the world sweet pleasure.
R esolue me, Muse, how this thing is,
E uer a body like to this
G aue Heau'n to earthly creature?
I am but fond[177] this doubt to make
N o doubt the angels bodies take,
A bove our common nature.