Classic Poem

HAIL , fair beauties! and again,
Hail to all your goodly train!
What I promised yesterday,
If it please you, hear ye may;
For now once begun have I,
Sing I will, though none were by.
And, though freely on I run,
Yet confused paths to shun,
First, that part shall be disclosed
That's of elements composed.
There the two unequal pair,
Water, fire, earth, and air
(Each one suiting a complexion),
Have so cunning a commixion.
As they in proportion sweet
With the rarest tempers meet;
Either in as much as needeth,
So as neither aught exceedeth.
This pure substance is the same
Which the body we do name.
Were that of immortal stuff,
'Tis refined and pure enough
To be called a soul; for sure
Many souls are not so pure.
I, that with a serious look
Note of this rare model took,
Find, that nature in their places
So well couched all the graces,
As the curioust eyes that be
Can nor blot nor blemish see.

Like a pine it goeth straight
Reaching an approved height,
And hath all the choice perfections
That inflame the best affections.
In the motion of each part
Nature seems to strive with art
Which her gestures most shall bless
With the gifts of pleasingness.

When she sits, methinks I see
How all virtues fixed be
In a frame, whose constant mould
Will the same unchanged hold.
If you note her when she moves,
Cytherea drawn with doves
May come learn such winning motions
As will gain to love's devotions
More than all her painted wiles,
Such as tears. or sighs, or smiles.

Some, whose bodies want true graces,
Have sweet features in their faces;
Others that do miss them there,
Lovely are some other where,
And to our desires do fit
In behaviour or in wit;
Or some inward worth appearing
To the soul, the soul endearing:
But in her your eye may find
All that's good in womankind.
What in others we preter
Are but sundry parts of her,
Who most perfect doth present
What might one and all content,
Yea he that in love still ranges,
And each day or hourly changes,
Had he judgment but to know
What perfections in her grow,
There would find the spring of store,
Swear a faith, and change no more.

Neither in the total frame
Is she only void of blame,
But each part surveyed asunder
Might beget both love and wonder.
If you dare to look so high,
Or behold such majesty,
Lift your wondering eyes and see
Whether aught can bettered be.

There's her hair with which love angles,
And beholders' eyes entangles;
For in those fair curled snares
They are hampered unawares,
And compelled to swear a duty
To her sweet, enthralling beauty.
In my mind 'tis the most fair
That was ever called hair;
Somewhat brighter than a brown,
And her tresses waving down
At full length, and so dispread,
Mantle her from foot to head.

If you saw her arched brow,
Tell me, pray, what art knows how
To have made it in a line
More exact or more divine.
Beauty there may be descried
In the height of all her pride;
'Tis a meanly rising plain,
Whose pure white hath many a vein
Interlacing, like the springs
In the earth's enamellings.
If the tale be not a toy
Of the little winged boy,
When he means to strike a heart,
Thence he throws the fatal dart;
Which of wounds still makes a pair,
One of love, one of despair.

Round her visage, or so near
To a roundness doth appear,
That no more of length it takes
Than what best proportion makes.

Short her chin 15, and yet so
As it is just long enow;
Loveliness doth seem to glory
In that circling promontory.
Pretty moving features skip
'Twixt the hillock and the lip,
If you note her but the while
She is pleased to speak or smile.

And her lips, that show no dulness,
Full are in the meanest fulness;
Those the leaves be, whose unfolding
Brings sweet pleasures to beholding;
For such pearls they do disclose
Both the Indies match not those;
Yet are so in order placed,
As their whiteness is more graced.
Each part is so well disposed,
And her dainty mouth composed
So as there is no distortion
Misbeseems that sweet proportion.

When her ivory teeth she buries
'Twixt her two enticing cherries,
There appear such pleasures hidden
As might tempt what were forbidden.
If you look again, the whiles
She doth part those lips in smiles,
'Tis as when a flash of light
Breaks from heaven to glad the night.

Others may my pencil crave,
But those lips I cannot leave;
For methinks, if I should go
And forsake those cherries so,
There's a kind of excellence
Would hold me from departing hence,
I would tell you what it were,
But my cunning fails me here.
They are like in their discloses
To the morning's dewy roses,
That beside the name of fair
Cast perfumes that fill the air.
Melting soft her kisses be,
And had I now two or three,
More inspired by their touch,
I had praised them twice as much.

But sweet Muses! mark ye, how
Her fair eyes do check me now,
That I seemed to pass them so,
And their praises overgo!
And yet blame me not, that I
Would so fain have passed them by,
For I feared to have seen them,
Lest there were some danger in them.
Yet such gentle looks they lend,
As might make her foe a friend,
And by their allurings move
All beholders unto love.
Such a power is also there,
As will keep those thoughts in fear,
And command enough I saw
To hold impudence in awe.
There may he that knows to love
Read contents which are above
Their ignoble veins, who know
Nothing that so high doth grow.
Whilst she me beholding is,
My heart dares not think amiss,
For her sight, most piercing clear,
Seems to see what's written there.

Those bright eyes, that with their light
Oftentimes have blessed my sight,
And in turning thence their shining
Left me in sad darkness pining,
Are the rarest, loveliest grey,
And do cast forth such a ray;
As the man that black preters,
More would like this grey of her's.
When their matchless beams she shrouds,
'Tis like Cynthia hid in clouds.
If again she show them light,
'Tis like morning after night.
And 'tis worthy well beholding
With how many a pretty folding
Her sweet eyelids grace that fair,
Meanly fringed with beaming hair,
Whereby neatly overspread,
Those bright lamps are shadowed.

'Twixt the eyes no hollow place,
Wrinkle, nor indecent space
Disproportions her in aught,
Though by envy faults were sought.

On those eyebrows never yet
Did disdainful scowling sit.
Love and goodness gotten thither,
Sit on equal thrones together,
And do throw just scorn on them
That their government contemn.

Then, almost obscured, appears
Those her jewel-gracing ears,
Whose own beauties more adorn
Than the richest pearl that's worn
By the proudest Persian dames,
Or the best that nature frames.
Through the voice in love's meanders
Those their pretty circlings wanders,
Whose rare turnings will admit
No rude speech to enter it.

Stretching from Mount Forehead lies
Beauty's cape betwixt her eyes;
Which two crystal-passing lakes
Love's delightful isthmus makes;
Neither more nor less extending
Than most meriteth commending.
Those in whom that part hath been
Best deserving praises seen,
Or (surveyed without affection)
Came the nearest to perfection,
Would scarce handsome ones appear,
If with her compared they were.
For it is so much excelling
That it passeth means of telling.

On the either side of this
Love's most lovely prospect is;
Those her smiling cheeks, whose colour
Comprehends true beauty fuller
Than the curioust mixtures can
That are made by art of man;
It is beauty's garden-plot,
Where, as in a true-love's knot,
So the snowy lily grows
Mixed with the crimson rose,
That as friends they joined be;
Yet they seem to disagree
Whether of the two shall reign;
And the lilies oft obtain
Greater sway, unless a blush
Help the roses at a push.
Hollow fallings none there are,
There's no wrinkle, there's no scar,
Only there's a little mole,
Which from Venus cheek was store.

If it were a thing in nature
Possible that any creature
Might decaying life repair
Only by the help of air,
There were no such salve for death
As the balm of her sweet breath.
Or if any human power
Might detain the soul an hour,
From the flesh to dust bequeathing,
It would linger on her breathing;
And be half in mind that there
More than mortal pleasures were.
And whose fortune were so fair
As to draw so sweet an air,
Would no doubt let slighted lie
The perfumes of Araby.
For the English eglantine
Doth through envy of her pine;
Violets and roses too
Fear that she will them undo;
And it seems that in her breast
Is composed the phaenix's nest.

But descend awhile, mine eye,
See if polished ivory,
Or the finest fleeced flocks,
Or the whitest Albion rocks,
For comparisons may stand
To express that snowy hand.
When she draws it from her glove,
It hath virtue to remove.
Or disperse, if there be aught
Cloudeth the beholder's thought.
If that palm but toucheth your,
You shall feel a secret power
Cheer your heart, and glad it more,
Though it drooped with grief before.

Through the veins, disposed true,
Crimson yields a sapphire hue,
Which adds grace and more delight
By embracing with the white.
Smooth and moist, and soft and tender
Are her palms; the fingers slender,
Tipt with mollified pearl:
And if that transformed girl,
Whose much cunning made her dare
With Jove's daughter to compare,
Had that hand worn, maugre spite,
She had shamed the goddess quite;
For there is in every part
Nature perfecter than art.

These were joined to those arms,
That were never made for harms;
But possess the sweetest graces
That may apt them for embraces.
Like the silver streams they be
Which from some high hill we see
Clipping in a goodly vale
That grows proud of such a thrall.

Neither alabaster rocks,
Pearl-strewed shores, nor Cotswold flocks,
Nor the mountains tipt with snow,
Nor the milk-white swans of Po,
Can appear so fair to me
As her spotless shoulders be.
They are like a work of state
Covered with the richest plate;
And a presence have that strike
With devotions goddess-like.

'Twixt those shoulders, meanly spread,
To support that globe-like head,
Riseth up her neck, wherein
Beauty seemeth to begin
To disclose itself in more
Tempting manner than before,
How therein she doth excel,
Though I would, I cannot tell;
For I nought on earth espy
That I may express it by.
Yea, from head to foot each feature
Shows her an unblemished creature,
In whom love with reason might
Find so matchless a delight,
That more cannot be acquired,
Nor a greater bliss desired.

Yet, if you will rest an hour
Under yonder shady bower,
I anon my muse will raise
To a higher pitch of praise.
But awhile with raspice-berries,
Strawberries, ripe pears, and cherries,
Such as these our grove do bear,
We will cool our palates here.
And those homely cates among,
Now and then a pastoral song
Shall my lad here sing and play,
Such as you had yesterday.