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!
SONNET I.
Admire not, Shepherd's Boy!
Why I my pipe forbear?
My Sorrows and my Joy
Beyond expression are!
Though others may
In Songs display
Their Passions, when they woo;
Yet, mine do fly
A pitch too high
For Words to reach unto.
If such weak thoughts as those
Which others' Fancies moves;
Or if my heart did 'close
But common Strains of Love:
Or Passions' store
Learned me no more
To feel, than others do:
I'd paint my cares
As black as theirs,
And teach my lines to woo!
But, O, thrice happy! ye
Whose mean conceit is dull!
You, from those thoughts are free!
That stuff my breast so full.
My love's excess
Lets to express
What Songs are usèd to:
And my delights
Take such high flights,
My joys will me undo.
I have a Love that's fair,
Rich, wise, and nobly born;
She's True Perfection's Heir,
Holds nought but vice in scorn.
A heart to find,
More chaste, more kind,
Our plains afford no mo.
Of her degree,
No blab I'll be;
For doubt some Prince should woo.