Of her o’er-daring and insulting pride.
George Wither.
XCIV
ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA.
You meaner beauties of the night,
Which poorly satisfy our eyes,
More by your number than your light,—
You common people of the skies,
What are you, when the Moon shall rise? 5
You violets that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known,