Classic Poem

The Lover in praise of his Ladie

Appelles, O thou famous Greeke!
Thy praise unto my eares doth sounde,
Since thou so farre abroade didst seeke
In countries through the world so rounde,
Till thou hadst drawen forth Venus shape,
Whose beautie past Syr Paris rape.

O! that thy fortune had beene such,
To light whereas my lady lives,
Whose glittering beautie is so much,
As to thinke on my heart it ryves;
For Venus shee doth passe as farre,
As doth the sunne each shyning starre.

Eche gift which nature could devise,
By arte my Ladie E retaines;
A sacred head, which to surmise
The trueth, all other farre it staines:
Her haires bee of so glistering hewe,
As gold they staine to outward vewe.

Her christall eyes, her sugred tongue,
From whence such pleasaunt wordes do floe,
That lyking binds both old and younge
The ground to love where shee doth goe,
Her cherrie cheekes so fresh of hewe,
Her veynes much like to azurs blewe;

Her rubie lippes, her snowish necke,
Her proper chin, her christall breast,
Her pleasaunt veynes, whose pappes do decke
Her comely corpes so finely preast,
Her slender armes, with milke white hands,
Would catch the Gods in Cupids bands.

Her other partes, so finely wrought,
Doe passe my wittes for to recite,
For why it seemde dame Nature sought
In court eche gorgious gearle to spite,
When first of mould shee did her frame,
Shee is so beautifull a dame.

Noe marvell though the Graecian king
Did shape his course through fishfull floud,
From hatefull Troy his wife to bring,
Or els in Phrygia leave his bloud,
If halfe such beautie in Hellen were,
As is in this my ladie faire.

If Briseis beautie were so bright,
Her comely syces so exceld,
None may blame Achilles flight,
When raging love his heart compeld
To leave his lord amid his foes,
A salve to search to cure his woes.

Nor yet Ulysses none may blame,
Though frensie hee himselfe did faine,
Because without reprochfull shame
Hee would avoide the Graecian traine,
The which to Troy their course did shape
To fetch againe Syr Paris rape;

If that the beautie equall were
Of chaste Penelope, his wife,
To match with this my lady rare,
For whom I hazard would my life
Amid a troupe of Troyans fell,
My fancie shee doth feede so well.