Meet you her, my Wishes,
Bespeak her to my blisses,
And be ye call’d my absent kisses.
I wish her Beauty,
That owes not all its duty
To gaudy tire, or glist’ring shoe-tie:
Something more than
Taffeta 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.
A Cheek, where youth
And blood, with pen of truth,
Write what the reader sweetly ru’th.
A Cheek, where grows
More than a morning rose,
Which to no box his being owes.
Lips, where all day
A lover’s kiss may play,
Yet carry nothing thence away.
Looks, that oppress
Their richest tires, but dress
And clothe their simplest nakedness.
Eyes, that displace
The neighbour diamond, and outface
That sunshine by their own sweet grace.