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.
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!"