Classic Poem

What toung can her perfection tell,
In whose each part all pens may dwell?
Her haire fine threeds of finest gold,
In curled knots man's thought to hold,
But that her fore-head sayes, In me
A whiter beautie you may see;
Whiter! — in deede more white then snow
Which on cold Winter's face doth grow; —
That doth present those euen browes
Whose equall line their angles bowes;
Like to the Moone, when, after chaunge,
Her horned head abroad doth raunge,
And arches be to heauenly lids;
Whose winke each bold attempt forbids.
For the blacke starres those spheares containe,
The matchlesse paire euen praise doth staine;
No lampe whose light by Art is got,
No sunne which shines and seeth not,
Can liken them, without all peere
Saue one as much as other cleere;
Which onely thus vnhappy bee
Because themselues they cannot see.
Her cheekes with kindly claret spread,
Aurora-like new out of bed;
Or like the fresh queene-apples side,
Blushing at sight of Phaebus' pride.
Her nose, her chinne, pure iuory weares,
No purer then the pretie eares,
So that therein appeares some blood,
Like wine and milke that mingled stood;
In whose incirclets if ye gaze,
Your eyes may tread a louer's maze,
But with such turnes the voice to stray,
No talke vntaught can finde the way.
The tippe no iewell needs to weare,
The tippe is iewell of the eare.
But who those ruddie lips can misse,
Which blessed still themselues doe kisse:
Rubies, cherries, and roses new,
In worth, in taste, in perfect hew;
Which neuer part but that they showe
Of precious pearle the double row;
The second sweetly-fenced ward,
Her heauenly-dewed tongue to gard,
Whence neuer word in vaine did flowe.
Faire vnder these doth stately grow
The handle of this precious worke,
The neck, in which strange graces lurke.
Such be I thinke the sumptuous towers
Which skill doth make in princes' bowers.
So good asay inuites the eye
A little downward to espie
The liuelie clusters of her brests,
Of Venus' babe the wanton nests:
Like pomels round of marble cleere,
Where azurde veines well-mixt appeere,
With dearest tops of porphyrie.
Betwixt these two a way doth lie, —
A way more worthie Beautie's fame
Than that which beares the milkie name:
This leades into the ioyous field
Which onely still doth lillies yeeld;
But lillies such, whose natiue smell
The Indian odours doth excell:
Waste it is call'd, for it doth waste
Men's liues vntill it be imbraste
There may one see, and yet not see,
Her ribbes in white all armed bee;
More white then Neptune's fomie face
When struggling rockes he would imbrace.
In those delights the wandring thought
Might of each side astray be brought,
But that her nauel doth vnite
In curious circle busie sight:
A daintie seale of virgin-waxe,
Where nothing but impression lackes
Her bellie then glad sight doth fill,
Iustly intituled Cupid's hill, —
A hill most fitte for such a master,
A spotlesse mine of alablaster:
Like alablaster faire and sleeke,
But soft and supple satten-like
In that sweete seate the boy doth sport;
Loath I must leaue his chiefe resort,
For such a vse the world hath gotten,
The best things still must be forgotten.
Yet neuer shall my song omitte
Her thighes, for Ouid's song more fit,
Which flanked with two sugred flankes,
Lift vp her stately-swelling bankes,
That Albion cliues in whitenesse passe, —
With hanches smooth as looking-glasse
But bow all knees, now of her knees
My tongue doth tell what fancie sees,
The knots of ioy, the gemmes of loue,
Whose motion makes all graces moue,
Whose bought incau'd, doth yeeld such sight,
Like cunning painter shadowing white.
The gartring-place, with child-like signe,
Shewes easie print in metall fine;
But then againe the flesh doth rise
In her braue calues, like chrystall skies,
Whose Atlas is a smallest small,
More white then whitest bone of all
Thereout steales out that round cleane foote,
This noble cedar's precious roote,
In shew and sent pale violets;
Whose step on earth all beautie sets.
But backe vnto her backe, my Muse,
Where Leda's swanne his feathers mewes,
Along whose ridge such bones are met,
Like comfits round in marchpane set
Her shoulders be like two white doues,
Pearching within square royall rooues,
Which leaded are with siluer skinne,
Passing the hate-spot ermelin
And thence those armes deriued are:
The phaenix' wings are not so rare
For faultlesse length and stainlesse hue
Ah, wo is me, my woes renue,
Now course doth leade me to her hand,
Of my first loue the fatall band,
Where whitenesse doth for euer sit:
Nature her selfe enameld it;
For there with strange compact doth lie
Warme snow, moist pearle, soft iuorie;
There fall those saphir-coloured brookes,
Which conduit-like with curious crookes
Sweet ilands make in that sweet land
As for the fingers of the hand,
The bloudy shafts of Cupid's warre,
With amatists they headed are.
Thus hath each part his beautie's part;
But how the Graces doe impart
To all her limmes a speciall grace,
Becomming euery time and place,
Which doth euen beautie beautifie,
And most bewitch the wretched eye; —
How all this is but a faire inne
Of fairer guests, which dwell therein; —
Of whose high praise and praisefull blisse
Goodnesse the penne, heauen paper is;
The inke immortall fame doth lend: —
As I began so must I end:
No tongue can her perfections tell,
In whose each part all tongues may dwell