Sweet is the golden couslippe , bright, and faire:
Tentimes more sweet, more golden, fayre, and bright,
Thy tresses (in rich tramell'de knottes) resembling.
Venus swannes backe, is louely, smooth, and white:
More louely, smooth, and white his fethers are,
The siluer lustre of thy browes dissembling.
Bright are the sunne-beames, on the water trembling:
Much brighter, shinning like loues holy fier
On the well-watred dya'mondes of those eyes,
Whose heates reflection loues affection tryes.
Sweet is the sensor, whose fume doth aspyer
Appeasing loue, when for reuenge he flyes:
More sweet the censor, like thy seemely nose,
Whose bewtie (then inuentions wonder h'yer)
Nyne times nine muses neuer could disclose.
Sweet Eglantyne , I can not but commende
Thy modest rosie blush, pure white, and redde:
Yet I thy white, and redde prayse more, and more,
In my sweet Ladyes cheekes since they be shedde.
When grapes to full maturitie doe tende,
So round, so redde, so sweet, all ioye before,
Continually I long for them therefore;
To sucke there sweet, and with my lippes to tuch:
Not so much for the muses Nectar sake,
But that they from thy lippes there purpure take.
Sweet (pardon) though I thee compaire to such.
Proude nature, which so white loues doues did make,
And fram'd their louely heades, so white, and round:
How white and rounde? it doth exceede so much,
That nature nothing like thy chynne hath founde.
Faire Perles which garnish my sweet Ladies necke,
Faire Orient perles oh how much I admire you!
Not for your Orient glosse, or vertues rarenesse,
But that you tuch her necke I much desier you,
Whose whitenesse so much doth your lustre checke
As whitest Lillyes the primerose in fairenesse:
A necke most gorgious, euen in natures barenesse.
Deuine rose buddes , which (when spring doth surrender
His crowne to summer) he last trophie reareth,
By which he (from all seasons) the palme beareth,
Faire purple crisped fouldes sweet-dew'de, and tender,
Whose sweetnesse neuer weares, though moysture weareth,
Sweet ripe-redde strawberryes , whose heauenly sappe
I would desier to sucke: but loues ingender
A Nectar more deuine, in thy sweet pappe.
Oh louely tender pappes! but who shall presse them?
Whose heauenly Nectar , and Ambroseall iuyce
Proceede from Viollettes sweet, and Asier -like,
And from the matchlesse purple Flower-deluce :
Round-rising hilles, white hilles (sweet Venus blesse them)
Natures rich trophyes , not those hilles vnlike
Which that great Monarche Charles (whose power did strike
From thartique to th'antartique ) dignified
With proude Plus vltra , which Cerographye
In vnknowne Caracters of victorye
Nature hath set: by which she signified
Her Conquestes miracle rear'de vp on hye.
Soft Iuorie balles, with which whom she lettes play
Aboue all mortall men is magnified,
And wagers boue all price shall beare away.
Oh loues, soft hilles how much I wonder you?
Betweene whose louely valleyes, smooth, and straite
That glassie moisture lyes, that slipperie dewe,
Whose courage tuch'te, could dead men animate:
Old Nestor (if betweene, or vnder you
He should but tuch) his young yeares might renew,
And with all youthfull ioyes him selfe in dewe.
Oh smooth white satten, match-lesse, soft, and bright?
More smooth then oyle, more white then lillye is,
As hard to matche as loues mountes hillye is,
As soft as downe, cleare as on glasse sunne-light,
To prayse your white my toung too much sillye is:
How much at your smooth soft my sence amazed is,
Which charmes the feeling and inchauntes the sight?
But yet her bright, smooth, white, soft skinne more praysed is.
How oft haue I, the siluer swanne commended
For that eauen chesse of fethers in her wing,
So white, and in such decent order placed,
When she the dolye Dirge of death did sing,
With her yong mournefull Cygnettes trayne attended?
Yet, not because the milke-white winges her graced,
But, when I thinke on my sweet Ladyes wast,
Whose Iuorie sides, a snowye shadow giues
Of her well ordred ribbes, which rise in falling,
How oft the swanne I pittied her death calling?
With dreerie notes? not that she so short liues,
And mongst the muses singes, for her installing,
But that so cleare a white should be distayned
With one, that for loues sugred torment liues,
And makes that white a plague to louers payned.
Oh how oft, how oft, did I chide and curse
The brethren windes in their power disagreeing?
East for vnholesome vapour, South for rayne,
North for (by snowes and whirlewindes) bitter being:
I lou'd the West , because it was the nurse
To Floraes gardens, and to Coeres graine.
Yet tentimes more these I did curse againe,
Because they were inconstant, and vnstable,
In drought, in moysture, frostie cold, and heate,
Here with a sunnie smile, their stormie threate:
Much like my Ladies fancies variable.
How oft with feete did I the marble beate,
Harming my feete, yet neuer hurt the stone,
Because like her it was impenitrable,
And her hartes nature with it was all one?
Oh that my ceaselesse sighes, and teares were able
To counter-charme her hart, to stone conuerted?
I might worke miracles to chaunge againe
The hard to soft, that it might rew my paine:
But of her selfe she is so straitely skirted
(Falsely reputing true loue honors staine)
That I shall neuer moue, and neuer dye,
So many wayes her minde I haue experted:
Yet shall I liue, through vertue of her eye.
Tentimes more sweet, more golden, fayre, and bright,
Thy tresses (in rich tramell'de knottes) resembling.
Venus swannes backe, is louely, smooth, and white:
More louely, smooth, and white his fethers are,
The siluer lustre of thy browes dissembling.
Bright are the sunne-beames, on the water trembling:
Much brighter, shinning like loues holy fier
On the well-watred dya'mondes of those eyes,
Whose heates reflection loues affection tryes.
Sweet is the sensor, whose fume doth aspyer
Appeasing loue, when for reuenge he flyes:
More sweet the censor, like thy seemely nose,
Whose bewtie (then inuentions wonder h'yer)
Nyne times nine muses neuer could disclose.
Sweet Eglantyne , I can not but commende
Thy modest rosie blush, pure white, and redde:
Yet I thy white, and redde prayse more, and more,
In my sweet Ladyes cheekes since they be shedde.
When grapes to full maturitie doe tende,
So round, so redde, so sweet, all ioye before,
Continually I long for them therefore;
To sucke there sweet, and with my lippes to tuch:
Not so much for the muses Nectar sake,
But that they from thy lippes there purpure take.
Sweet (pardon) though I thee compaire to such.
Proude nature, which so white loues doues did make,
And fram'd their louely heades, so white, and round:
How white and rounde? it doth exceede so much,
That nature nothing like thy chynne hath founde.
Faire Perles which garnish my sweet Ladies necke,
Faire Orient perles oh how much I admire you!
Not for your Orient glosse, or vertues rarenesse,
But that you tuch her necke I much desier you,
Whose whitenesse so much doth your lustre checke
As whitest Lillyes the primerose in fairenesse:
A necke most gorgious, euen in natures barenesse.
Deuine rose buddes , which (when spring doth surrender
His crowne to summer) he last trophie reareth,
By which he (from all seasons) the palme beareth,
Faire purple crisped fouldes sweet-dew'de, and tender,
Whose sweetnesse neuer weares, though moysture weareth,
Sweet ripe-redde strawberryes , whose heauenly sappe
I would desier to sucke: but loues ingender
A Nectar more deuine, in thy sweet pappe.
Oh louely tender pappes! but who shall presse them?
Whose heauenly Nectar , and Ambroseall iuyce
Proceede from Viollettes sweet, and Asier -like,
And from the matchlesse purple Flower-deluce :
Round-rising hilles, white hilles (sweet Venus blesse them)
Natures rich trophyes , not those hilles vnlike
Which that great Monarche Charles (whose power did strike
From thartique to th'antartique ) dignified
With proude Plus vltra , which Cerographye
In vnknowne Caracters of victorye
Nature hath set: by which she signified
Her Conquestes miracle rear'de vp on hye.
Soft Iuorie balles, with which whom she lettes play
Aboue all mortall men is magnified,
And wagers boue all price shall beare away.
Oh loues, soft hilles how much I wonder you?
Betweene whose louely valleyes, smooth, and straite
That glassie moisture lyes, that slipperie dewe,
Whose courage tuch'te, could dead men animate:
Old Nestor (if betweene, or vnder you
He should but tuch) his young yeares might renew,
And with all youthfull ioyes him selfe in dewe.
Oh smooth white satten, match-lesse, soft, and bright?
More smooth then oyle, more white then lillye is,
As hard to matche as loues mountes hillye is,
As soft as downe, cleare as on glasse sunne-light,
To prayse your white my toung too much sillye is:
How much at your smooth soft my sence amazed is,
Which charmes the feeling and inchauntes the sight?
But yet her bright, smooth, white, soft skinne more praysed is.
How oft haue I, the siluer swanne commended
For that eauen chesse of fethers in her wing,
So white, and in such decent order placed,
When she the dolye Dirge of death did sing,
With her yong mournefull Cygnettes trayne attended?
Yet, not because the milke-white winges her graced,
But, when I thinke on my sweet Ladyes wast,
Whose Iuorie sides, a snowye shadow giues
Of her well ordred ribbes, which rise in falling,
How oft the swanne I pittied her death calling?
With dreerie notes? not that she so short liues,
And mongst the muses singes, for her installing,
But that so cleare a white should be distayned
With one, that for loues sugred torment liues,
And makes that white a plague to louers payned.
Oh how oft, how oft, did I chide and curse
The brethren windes in their power disagreeing?
East for vnholesome vapour, South for rayne,
North for (by snowes and whirlewindes) bitter being:
I lou'd the West , because it was the nurse
To Floraes gardens, and to Coeres graine.
Yet tentimes more these I did curse againe,
Because they were inconstant, and vnstable,
In drought, in moysture, frostie cold, and heate,
Here with a sunnie smile, their stormie threate:
Much like my Ladies fancies variable.
How oft with feete did I the marble beate,
Harming my feete, yet neuer hurt the stone,
Because like her it was impenitrable,
And her hartes nature with it was all one?
Oh that my ceaselesse sighes, and teares were able
To counter-charme her hart, to stone conuerted?
I might worke miracles to chaunge againe
The hard to soft, that it might rew my paine:
But of her selfe she is so straitely skirted
(Falsely reputing true loue honors staine)
That I shall neuer moue, and neuer dye,
So many wayes her minde I haue experted:
Yet shall I liue, through vertue of her eye.