Ne could that Painter (had he lived yet)
Which pictured Venus with fo curious quill,
That all pofteritie admyred it,

Have purtray'd this, for all his maistring skill; Ne fhe her felfe, had the remained still,

215

And were as faire as fabling wits do fayne, Could once come neare this Beauty foverayne.

But had thofe wits, the wonders of their dayes, Or that sweete Teian poet, which did fpend His plenteous vaine in fetting forth her praise, Seen but a glims of this which I pretend, 221 How wondrously would he her face commend, Above that idole of his fayning thought,.

That all the world fhould with his rimes be fraught!

How then dare I, the novice of his art,
Presume to picture fo divine a wight,

225

Or hope t' expreffe her leaft perfections part, Whose beautie filles the heavens with her light, And darkes the earth with fhadow of her fight? Ah, gentle Mufe! thou art too weake and faint The pourtraict of fo heavenly hew to paint. 231

Let angels, which her goodly face behold

And fee at will, her foveraigne praises fing,

Ver. 219.

that sweete Teian poet,] Anacreon. T. WARTON.

And those most facred mysteries unfold
Of that faire love of Mightie Heavens King;
Enough is me t'admyre fo heavenly thing, 236
And, being thus with her huge love poffeft,
In th' only wonder of her felfe to reft.

But whofo may, thrife happie man him hold, Of all on earth whom God fo much doth grace, And lets his owne Beloved to behold;

For in the view of her celeftiall face

All ioy, all bliffe, all happinesfe, have place; Ne ought on earth can want unto the wight Who of her felfe can win the withfull fight. 245

For fhe, out of her fecret threafury,
Plentie of riches forth on him will powre,
Even heavenly riches, which there hidden ly
Within the clofet of her chafteft bowre,
Th' eternall portion of her precious dowre, 250
Which Mighty God hath given to her free,
And to all thofe which thereof worthy bee.

255

None thereof worthy be, but those whom shee
Vouchfafeth to her prefence to receave,
And letteth them her lovely face to fee,
Wherof fuch wondrous pleasures they conceave,
And fweete contentment, that it doth bereave
Their foul of fenfe, through infinite delight,
And them tranfport from flesh into the fpright.

In which they fee fuch admirable things, 260
As carries them into an extafy,

And heare fuch heavenly notes and carolings
Of Gods high praise, that filles the brasen sky';
And feele fuch ioy and pleasure inwardly,
That maketh them all worldly cares forget, 265
And onely thinke on that before them fet.

Ne from thenceforth doth any fleshly sense,
Or idle thought of earthly things, remaine;
But all that earft feemd fweet feemes now

offenfe,

269

And all that pleased earst now feemes to paine:
Their ioy, their comfort, their defire, their gaine,
Is fixed all on that which now they fee;
All other fights but fayned fhadowes bee.

And that faire lampe which useth to enflame
The hearts of men with felfe-confuming fyre, 275
Thenceforth feemes fowle, and full of finfull

blame ;

And all that pompe to which proud minds afpyre By name of Honor, and fo much defyre, Seemes to them bafeneffe, and all riches droffe, And all mirth sadnesse, and all lucre loffe. 280

So full their eyes are of that glorious fight,
And fenfes fraught with fuch fatietie,
That in nought elfe on earth they can delight,

284

ey;

But in th' afpect of that felicitie,
Which they have written in theyr inward
On which they feed, and in theyr fastened mynd
All happie ioy and full contentment fynd.

Ah, then, my hungry Soule! which long haft fed On idle fancies of thy foolish thought,

And, with falfe Beauties flattring bait mifled, Haft after vaine deceiptfull fhadowes fought, 291 Which all are fled, and now have left thee nought

But late repentance through thy follics prief; Ah! ceaffe to gaze on matter of thy grief:

And looke at last up to that Soveraine Light, 295 From whofe pure beams al perfect Beauty fprings,

That kindleth love in every godly spright, Even the love of God; which loathing brings Of this vile world and thefe gay-feeming things; With whose sweet pleasures being fo poffeft, Thy ftraying thoughts henceforth for ever

reft.

301

"BRITTAIN'S IDA.

WRITTEN BY THAT RENOWNED poët,

EDMOND SPENCER.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR THOMAS WALKLEY, AND ARE TO BE SOLD

AT HIS SHOP AT THE EAGLE AND CHILD IN BRITTAINES BURSSE,

1628." 12mo.