Her goodly eyes like sapphires shining brigh
Her forehead ivory white;
Her cheeks like apples which the sun hath rudded,
Her lips like cherries, charming men to bite,
Her breast like to a bowl of cream uncrudded,
Her paps like lillies budded,
Her snowy neck like to a marble tower;
And all her body like a palace fair
Ascending up with many a stately stair
To Honour's seat and Chastity's sweet bower.
Why stand ye still, ye virgins, in amaze,
Upon her so to gaze,
Whilst ye forget your former lay to sing
To which the woods did answer, and your echo ring.
But if ye saw that which no eyes can see,
The inward beauty of her lively sprite,
Garnished with heavenly gifts of high degree,
Much more, then, would ye wonder at that sight,
And stand astonish'd, like to those which read
Medusa's amazeful head.
There dwells sweet Love and constant Chastity,
Unspotted Faith, and comely Womanhood,
Regard of Honour, and mild Modesty.
There Virtue reigns as qucen in royal throne,
And giveth laws alone,
The which the base affections do obey,
And yield their services unto her will;
Ne thought of things uncomely ever may
Thereto approach, to tempt her mind to ill.
Had ye once seen these, her celestial treasures,
And unrevealed pleasures,
Then would ye wonder, and her praises sing,
That all the woods should answer, and your echo ring.
Open the temple gates unto my love;
Open them wide, that she may enter in ;
And all the posts adorn as doth behove,
And all the pillars deck with garlands trim,
For to receive this saint with honour due,
That cometh in to you.
With trembling steps, and humble reverence,
She cometh in, before th' Almighty's view.
Of her, ye virgins, learn obedience,
When so ye come into those holy places
To humble your proud faces.
Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may
The sacred ceremonies there partake,
The which do endless matrimony make
And let the roaring organs loudly play
The praises of the Lord in lively notes:
The whilst, with hollow throats,
The choristers the joyous anthem sing,
That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring.
Fayre is my love, when her fayre golden haires
With the loose wynd ye waving chance to marke¡
Fayre when the rose in her red cheekes appcares;
Or in her eyes the fyre of love docs sparke.
Fayre, when her breast, like a rich laden barke,
With pretious merchandize she forth doth lay;
Fayre, when that cloud of pryde, which oft doth mark
Her goodly light, with smiles she drives away.
But fayrest she, when so she doth display
The gate with pearles and rubyes richly dight;
Through which her words so wise do make their way
To beare the message of her gentle spright;
The rest be works of nature's wonderment,
But this the work of hart's astonishment.
Fresh Spring, the herald of Love's mighty king,
In whose coat-armour richly are displayed
All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring,
In goodly colours gloriously arrayed ;
Go to my love, where she is careless laid.
In winter's bower yet not well awake;
Tell her the joyous time will not be stay'd,
Unless she do him by the forelock take.
Bid her, therefore, herself soon ready make,
To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew;
Where every one that misseth then her make,
Shall be by him amerced with penance due.
Make haste therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime,
For none can call again the passed time.
Faint amorist! what, dost thou think
To taste love's honey, and not drink
One dram of gall? or to devour
A world of sweet, and taste no sour?
Dost thou ever think to enter
Th' Elysian Fields, that dar'st not venture
In Charon's barge? A lover's mind
Must use to sail with every wind.
He that loves, and fears to try,
Learns his mistress to deny.
Doth she chide thee? 'tis to shew it
That thy coldness makes her do it.
Is she silent? is she mute?
Silence fully grants thy suit.
Doth she pout and leave the room?
Then she goes to bid thee come.
Is she sick? why then be sure,
She invites thee to the cure.
Doth she cross thy suit with "No?"
Tush she loves to hear thee woo.
Doth she call the faith of men
In question? nay, she loves thee then,
And if c'er she makes a blot,
She's lost if that thou hitt'st her not,
He that, after ten denials,
Dares attempt no further trials,
Hath no warrant to acquire
The dainties of his chaste desire.
O kiss! which do'st those ruddy gems impart, Or gems or fruits of new found Paradise,
Breathing all bliss, and sweetness to the heart; Teaching dumb lips a nobler exercise:
O kiss! which souls, cv'n souls together ties,
By links of Love, and only Nature's art:
Now fain would I paint thee to all men's eyes,
Or of thy gifts, at least, shade out some part!
But she forbids; with blushing words, she says,
She builds her fame on higher-scated praise.
But my heart burns, I cannot silent be!
Then since, dear Life! you fain would have me peace;
And I, mad with delight, want wit to cease;
Stop you my mouth, with still, still kissing me.
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