Classic Poem

Into her chariot she him quickly takes,
And swift as time, cutting the yielding air,
Her discontent she tells him, as she makes
Towards Psyche's sweet abode a sad repair.
Psyche the lady hight, that now awakes
Fair Venus' fury; look, quoth she, and there
Behold my grief; O Cupid, shut thine eyne,
Or that which now is hers will soon be thine.

See yonder girl, quoth she, for whom my shrine
Is left neglected and of all forlorn;
Hark how the poets court the sacred Nine
To give them raptures full and highly born
That may befit a beauty so divine,
And from the threshold of the rosy morn
To Phaebus' western inn, fill by their lays
All hearts with love of her, all tongues with praise.

By that maternal rightful pow'r, my son,
Which I have with thee, and may justly claim:
By those gold darts which I for thee have won,
By those sweet wounds they make without a maim:
By thy kind fire which hath such wonders done,
And all fair eyes from whence thou takest aim:
By these and by this kiss, this and this other,
Right a wrong'd goddess and revenge thy mother.

And this way do it: make that glorious maid
Slave in affection to a wretch as rude
As ever yet deformity array'd
Or all the vices of the multitude.
Let him love money! and a friend betray'd
Proclaim with how much wit he is endued;
Let not sweet sleep but sickness make his bed!
And to the grave bring home her maidenhead.

When the bless'd day calls others from their sleep,
And birds' sweet lays rejoice all creatures waking,
Let her lame husband's groans and sighing deep
Affright her from that rest which she is taking!
And (spite of all her care) when she doth weep,
Let him mistrust her tears and faith's forsaking!
In brief, let her affect (thus I importune)
One wrong'd as much as Nature could or Fortune.

Thus spoke she, and a winning kiss she gave,
A long one with a free and yielding lip,
Unto the god; and on the brackish wave
(Leaving her son ashore) doth nimbly trip.
Two dolphins with a chariot richly brave
Waited, and with her unto Cyprus strip;
The little Cupid she had left behind,
And gave him sight then when he should be blind.

Cupid, to work his wiles that can apply
Himself, like Proteus, to what form he list,
Fierce as a lion, nimble as an eye,
As glorious as the sun, dark as a mist,
Hiding himself within a lady's eye,
Or in a silken hair's ensnaring twist;
And those within whose breasts he oft doth fall,
And feel him most, do know him least of all.

The god now us'd his pow'r, and him address'd
Unto a fitting stand, where he might see
All that kind Nature ever yet express'd
Of colour, feature, or due symmetry;
It seem'd heaven was come down to make earth bless'd.
No wonder then if there this god should be;
No; wonder more which way he can be driven,
To leave this sight for those he knew in heaven.

Her cheeks the wonder of what eye beheld,
Begot betwixt a lily and a rose,
In gentle rising plains divinely swell'd,
Where all the graces and the loves repose.
Nature in this piece all her works excell'd,
Yet show'd herself imperfect in the close,
For she forgot (when she so fair did raise her)
To give the world a wit might duly praise her.

Her sweet and ruddy lips, full of the fire
Which once Prometheus stole away from heaven,
Could by their kisses raise a like desire
To that by which Alcides once was driven
To fifty beds, and in one night entire
To fifty maids the name of mother given;
But had he met this dame first, all the other
Had rested maids: she fifty times a mother!

When that she spoke, as at a voice from heaven
On her sweet words all ears and hearts attended;
When that she sung, they thought the planets seven
By her sweet voice might well their tunes have mended;
When she did sigh, all were of joy bereaven;
And when she smil'd, heaven had them all befriended.
If that her voice, sighs, smiles, so many thrill'd,
O, had she kiss'd, how many had she kill'd!

Her hair was flaxen, small, and full and long,
Wherewith the soft enamour'd air did play,
And here and there with pearls was quaintly strung;
When they were spread (like to Apollo's ray)
They made the breasts of the Olympic throng
To feel their flames, as we the flame of day;
And to eternize what they saw so fair,
They made a constellation of her hair.

Her slender fingers (neat and worthy made
To be the servants to so much perfection)
Join'd to a palm, whose touch would straight invade
And bring a sturdy heart to low subjection.
Her slender wrists two diamond bracelets lade,
Made richer by so sweet a soul's election.
O happy bracelets! but more happy he
To whom those arms shall as a bracelet be!

Nature, when she made women's breasts, was then
In doubt of what to make them, or how stain'd;
If that she made them soft, she knew that men
Would seek for rest there, where none could be gain'd:
If that she made them snow-like, they again
Would seek for cold where love's hot flamings reign'd;
She made them both, and men deceived so,
Find wakefulness in down, and fire in snow.

Such were fair Psyche's lillied beds of love,
Or rather two new worlds where men would fain
Discover wonders by her stars above,
If any guide could bring them back again.
But who shall on those azure riverets move,
Is lost, and wanders in an endless main;
So many graces, pleasures, there apply them,
That man should need the world's age to descry them.

As when a woodman on the greeny lawns,
Where daily chants the sad-sweet nightingale,
Would count his herd, more bucks, more prickets, fawns
Rush from the copse and put him from his tale;
Or some wayfaring man, when morning dawns,
Would tell the sweet notes in a joysome vale,
At ev'ry foot a new bird lights and sings,
And makes him leave to count their sonnetings:

So when my willing Muse would gladly dress
Her several graces in immortal lines,
Plenty impoors her; ev'ry golden tress,
Each little dimple, every glance that shines
As radiant as Apollo, I confess
My skill too weak for so admir'd designs;
For whilst one beauty I am close about,
Millions do newly rise and put me out.

Never was maid to various nature bound
In greater bonds of thankfulness than she,
As all eyes judg'd; nor on the massy round
For all perfections could another be
Upon whose any limn was to be found
Ought, that on hers could vant of mastery;
Yet though all eyes had been a wishful feast,
Who saw nought but her body saw her least.

Blest was the womb that bore so fair a birth;
Blest was the birth for blessing of the womb;
Blest was the hand that took her to the earth;
Blest ev'ry shady arbour, every room;
Blest were the deserts rough where zephyr stirr'th;
Blest ev'ry craggy rock and rushy coombe:
All things that held, touch'd, saw her, still confess'd
To time's last period they were ever bless'd.

My fairest Caelia, when thine eyes shall view
These, and all other lines ere writ by me,
Wherein all beauties are describ'd, and true,
Think your devoted shepherd's fantasy,
Rapt by those heavenly graces are in you,
Had thence all matter fit for elogy.
Your blest endowments are my verses' mothers,
For by your sweetness I describe all others.