I wish her beauty
That owes not all its duty
To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie:
Something more than
Taffata or tissue can,
Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
A face that's best
By its own beauty drest,
And can alone commend the rest:
A face made up
Out of no other shop
Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.
Sidneian showers
Of sweet discourse, whose powers
Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.
Whate'er delight
Can make day's forehead bright
Or give down to the wings of night.
Soft silken hours,
Open suns, shady bowers;
'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.
Days, that need borrow
No part of their good morrow
From a fore-spent night of sorrow:
Days, that in spite
Of darkness, by the light
Of a clear mind are day all night.
Life, that dares send
A challenge to his end,
And when it comes, say, 'Welcome, friend.'