[Fair Virtue's sweet Graces.]

Boy! ha' done! For now my brain
Is inspirèd fresh again;
And new raptures pressing are,
To be sung in praise of Her,
Whose fair Picture lieth nigh,
Quite unveiled to every eye.
No small favour hath it been,
That such Beauty might be seen;
Therefore, ever may they rue it,
Who, with evil eyes shall view it!
Yea, what ancient stories tell
Once to rude Acteon fell
(When, with evil thoughts, he stood
Eying Cynthia in the flood);
May that fatal hornèd curse
Light upon them, or a worse!
But, whatever others be,
Lest some fault be found in me,
If imperfect this remain;
I will over-trim't again!
Therefore, turn where we begun!

And, now all is overrun.
Mark, if everything exprest
Suit not so unto the rest,
As if Nature would prefer
All perfections unto her!
Wherefore seems it strange to any
That they daily see so many,
Who were, else, most perfect creatures,
In some one part, want true features;
Since from all the fair'st that live,
Nature took the best, to give
Her, perfection in each part?
I, alone except her heart;
For, among all Womankind,
Such as hers is hard to find!
If you truly note her Face,
You shall find it hath a grace,
Neither wanton, nor o'er serious,
Nor too yielding, nor imperious;
But, with such a feature blest,
It is that which pleaseth best,
And delights each several eye
That affects with modesty.
Lowliness hath, in her look,
Equal place with Greatness took:
And if Beauty, anywhere,
Claims prerogatives, 'tis there!
For, at once, thus much 'twill do;
Threat! command! persuade! and woo!
In her Speech, there is not found
Any harsh, unpleasing sound;
But a well beseeming power,
Neither higher, neither lower,
Than will suit with her perfection.
'Tis the Loadstone of Affection!
And that man, whose judging eyes,
Could well sound such mysteries,
Would in love, make her his choice,
Though he did but hear her voice!
For such accents breathe not, whence
Beauty keeps non-residence.
Never word of hers I hear,
But 'tis music to mine ear,
And much more contentment brings
Than the sweetly-touchèd strings
Of the pleasing Lute, whose strains
Ravish hearers, when it 'plains.
Raised by her Discourse, I fly
In contented thoughts so high
That I pass the common measures
Of the dullèd senses' pleasures;
And leave far below my sight
Vulgar pitches of delight.
If She smile, and merry be;
All about her are as She!
For each looker on takes part
Of the joy that's in her heart.
If She grieve, or you but spy
Sadness peeping through her eye;
Such a grace it seems to borrow
That you'll fall in love with Sorrow;
And abhor the name of Mirth,
As the hateful'st thing on earth.
Should I see her shed a tear,
My poor eyes would melt, I fear:
For much more in Hers appears,
Than in other women's tears;
And her look did never feign
Sorrow, where there was no pain.
Seldom hath She been espied,
So impatient as to chide!
For if any see her so,
They'll in love with Anger grow.
Sigh, or speak, or smile, or talk,
Sing, or weep, or sit, or walk;
Every thing that She doth do,
Decent is, and lovely too.
Each part that you shall behold
Hath within itself enrolled
What you could desire to see,
Or your heart conceive to be:
Yet, if from that part, your eye
Moving, shall another spy,
There, you see as much or more
Than you thought to praise before.
While the eye surveys it! you
Will imagine that her Brow
Hath all beauty: when her Cheek
You behold! it is as like
To be deemèd fairest too;
So much there, can Beauty do.
Look but thence, upon her Eye!
And you wonder, by-and-by,
How there may be anywhere,
So much worthy praise as there.
Yet, if you survey her Breast,
Then, as freely, you'll protest
That in them, perfection is!
Though, I know, that one poor kiss
From her tempting Lips, would then
Make all that, foresworn again!
For the selfsame moving grace
Is, at once, in every place.
She, her beauty never foils
With your ointments, waters, oils!
Nor no loathsome fucus settles,
Mixed with Jewish fasting spetles!
Fair by Nature being born,
She doth, borrowed beauty scorn!
Whoso kisses her, needs fear
No unwholesome varnish there.
For from thence, he only sips
The pure nectar of her lips,
And, at once, with these he closes,
Melting rubies, cherries, roses.
Then, in her Behaviour, She
Striveth but Herself to be:
Keeping such a decent state,
As, indeed, she seems to hate
Precious leisure should be spent
In abusèd compliment.
Though she knows what others do,
(And can all their Courtship too)
She is not in so ill case,
As to need their borrowed grace.
Her Discourses sweetened are,
With a kind of artless care
That expresseth greater Art,
Than affected words impart.
So, her Gestures (being none
But that freeness, which alone
Suits the braveness of her mind)
Make her, of herself, to find
Postures more becoming far
Than the mere acquired are.
If you mark, when, for her pleasure,
She vouchsafes to foot a measure.
Though, with others' skill, She pace;
There's a sweet delightful grace
In herself, which doth prefer
Art beyond that Art, in her.
Neither needs She beat her wit
To devise what dressings fit!
Her complexion, and her feature
So beholding are to Nature,
If She, in the fashions go,
All the reason She doth so,
Is, because She would not err
In appearing singular;
Doubtless, not for any thought,
That 'twill perfect her in ought.
Many a dainty-seeming Dame
Is, in native beauties lame.
Some are gracèd by their tires,
As their quoifs, their hats, their wires.
One, a ruff doth best become;
Falling-bands much altereth some.
And their favours, oft, we see
Changèd as their dressings be.
Which her beauty never fears,
For it graceth all She wears.
If ye note her tire to-day;
"That doth suit her best!" you'll say.
Mark, what She, next morn, doth wear!
"That becomes her best!" you'll swear.
Yea, as oft as Her you see,
Such new graces still there be.
As She ever seemeth graced
Most by that she weareth last;
Though it be the same She wore
But the very day before.
When she takes her tires about her,
(Never half so rich without her!)
At the putting on of them,
You may liken every gem
To those lamps, which, at a Play,
Are set up to light the day:
For their lustre adds no more
To what Titan gave before;
Neither doth their pretty gleamings
Hinder ought, his greater beamings.
And yet (which is strange to me)
When those costly deckings be
Laid away; there seems descried
Beauties, which those veils did hide;
And She looks, as doth the Moon,
Past some cloud, through which she shone:
Or some jewel Watch, whose case,
Set with diamonds, seems to grace
What it doth contain within,
Till the curious work be seen;
Then, 'tis found, that costly Shrining
Did but hinder t'others' shining.
If you chance to be in place
Where her Mantle, She doth grace;
You would presently protest
"Irish dressings were the best!"
If again, She lay it down,
While you view her in a Gown,
And how those her dainty limbs
That close-bodied garment trims:
You would swear, and swear again,
"She appeared loveliest then!"
But if She, so truly fair,
Should untie her shining hair
And, at length, that treasure shed;
Jove's endurèd Ganymede,
Neither Cytherea's joy,
Nor the sweet self-loving Boy
Who in beauty did surpass,
Nor the fair'st that ever was,
Could, to take your prisoner, bring
Looks so sweetly conquering.
She excels her, whom Apollo
Once, with weeping eyes, did follow;
Or that Nymph, who, shut in towers,
Was beguiled with golden showers;
Yea, and she, whose Love was wont
To swim o'er the Hellespont
For her sake (though in attire
Fittest to enflame desire)
Seemed not half so fair to be
Nor so lovely as is She.
For the man, whose happy eye
Views her in full majesty,
Knows She hath a power that moves
More than doth the Queen of Loves,
When she useth all her power
To inflame her paramour.

And, sometimes, I do admire
All men burn not with Desire!
Nay, I muse her Servants are not
Pleading love: but O, they dare not!
And I, therefore, wonder why
They do not grow sick, and die.
Sure, they would do so, but that,
By the Ordinance of Fate,
There is some concealèd thing
So each gazer limiting,
He can see no more of merit
Than beseems his worth and spirit.
For, in her, a Grace there shines
That o'erdaring thoughts confines,
Making worthless men despair
To be loved of one so fair.
Yea, the Destinies agree
Some good judgements blind should be;
And not gain the power of knowing
Those rare beauties, in her growing.
Reason doth as much imply,
For, if every judging eye
Which beholdeth her, should there
Find what excellences are;
All, o'ercome by those perfections,
Would be captive to affections.
So (in happiness, unblest)
She, for lovers, should not rest.
This, well heeding, think upon!
And, if there be any one
Who alloweth not the worth
Which my Muse hath painted forth;
Hold it no defect in Her!
But that he's ordained to err.
Or if any female wight
Should detract from this I write;
She, I yield, may shew her wit,
But disparage Her no whit:
For, on earth few women be,
That from envy's touch are free;
And whoever, Envy, knew,
Yield those honours that were due?

Though, sometimes, my Song I raise
To unusèd heights of praise,
And break forth, as I shall please,
Into strange hyperboles,
'Tis to shew, Conceit hath found
Worth beyond Expression's bound.
Though her Breath I do compare
To the sweet'st perfumes that are;
Or her Eyes, that are so bright,
To the morning's cheerful light:
Yet I do it not so much
To infer that she is such,
As to shew that, being blest
With what merits name of Best,
She appears more fair to me,
Than all creatures else that be.
Her true beauty leaves behind
Apprehensions in my mind,
Of more sweetness than all Art
Or Inventions can impart:
Thoughts too deep to be expressed,
And too strong to be suppressed.
Which, oft, raiseth my conceits
To so unbelievèd heights
That, I fear, some shallow brain
Thinks my Muses do but feign.
Sure, he wrongs them, if he do!
For, could I have reachèd to
So like Strains, as these you see;
Had there been no such as She?
Is it possible that I
Who scarce heard of Poesy
Should a mere Idea raise
To as true a pitch of praise,
As the learned Poets could,
(Now, or in the times of old)
All those real Beauties bring,
Honoured by the Sonneting?
Having Arts, and favours too,
More t' encourage what they do?
No! If I had never seen
Such a Beauty, I had been
Piping in the country shades
To the homely dairy maids,
For a country fidler's fees,
"Clouted cream, and bread and cheese."
I, no skill in Numbers had,
More than every Shepherd's Lad,
Till She taught me Strains that were
Pleasing to her gentle ear.
Her fair splendour and her worth;
From obscureness, drew me forth;
And because I had no Muse,
She herself deigned to infuse
All the skill by which I climb
To these praises in my rhyme.
Which if she had pleased to add
To that, Art, sweet Drayton had;
Or that happy Swain, that shall
Sing Britannia's Pastoral;
Or to theirs, whose verse set forth
Rosalynd's and Stella's worth;
They had doubled all their skill
Gainèd on Apollo's hill:
And as much more set Her forth,
As I'm short of them in worth:
They had, unto heights aspired,
Might have justly been admired,
And, in such brave Strains had moved,
As, of all, had been approved.
I must praise Her, as I may!
Which I do, mine own rude way,
Sometimes setting forth her glories
By unheard-of allegories.

Think not, though, my Muse now sings
Mere absurd or feignèd things!
If to gold, I like her hair;
Or to stars, her eyes so fair:
Though I praise her skin by snow;
Or, by pearls, her double-row;
'Tis that you might gather thence
Her unmatchèd excellence.
Eyes as fair (for eyes) hath She
As stars fair, for Stars may be.
And each part as fair doth show
In its kind, as white in Snow.
'Tis no grace to her, at all;
If her hair, I, Sunbeams call.
For, were there power in Art,
So to portrait every part,
All men might those beauties see
As they do appear to me:
I would scorn to make compare
With the glorious'st things that are,
Nought I e'er saw, fair enow
But the Hair, the hair to show:
Yet some think him over bold
That compares it but to gold.
He, from Reason seems to err,
Who, commending of his Dear,
Gives her lips, the rubies' hue;
Or by pearls, her teeth doth shew:
But what pearls, what rubies can
Seem so lovely fair to man,
As her lips, whom he doth love,
When in sweet discourse they move?
Or her lovelier teeth, the while
She doth bless him with a smile?
Stars, indeed, fair creatures be!
Yet, amongst us, where is he
Joys not more, the while he lies
Sunning in his mistress' eyes,
Than in all the glimmering light
Of a starry winter's night?
Him, to flatter, most suppose,
That prefers before the rose,
Or the lilies while they grow,
Or the flakes of new-fall'n snow,
Her complexion, whom he loveth:
And yet this, my Muse approveth.
For in such a beauty, meets
Unexpressèd moving sweets,
That, the like unto them, no man
Ever saw but in a Woman.
Look on moon! on stars! or sun!
All GOD's creatures overrun!
See, if all of them presents
To your mind, such sweet contents;
Or if you, from them can take,
Ought that may a beauty make,
Shall, one half, so pleasing prove
As is hers, whom you do love!
For, indeed, if there had been
Other mortal beauties seen,
Objects for the love of man;
Vain was their Creation then!
Yea, if this could well be granted,
Adam might, his Eve have wanted!
But a Woman is the creature,
Whose proportion with our nature
Best agrees; and whose perfections
Sympathise with our affections:
And, not only find our Senses
Pleasure in their excellences;
But our Reason also knows
Sweetness in them, that outgoes
Human wit to comprehend!
Much more, truly to commend!
Note the beauty of any Eye!
And, if ought you praise it by,
Leave such Passion in your mind:
Let my Reason's Eye be blind!
Mark if ever red or white,
Anywhere, gave such delight,
As when they have taken place
In a worthy woman's face!
He that so much hath not noted,
Will not! or is grown besotted.
Such as lovers are, conceive
What impressions beauty leaves!
And those hearts that fire have took
By a love-inflaming look:
Those believe, what here I say!
And suppose not that I stray
In a word, by setting forth
Any praise beyond true worth!
And yet, wherefore should I care
What another's censures are?
Since I know Her to be such
As no praise can be too much.
All that see Her, will agree
In the self-same mind with me;
If their Wit be worth the having
Or their Judgement merit craving.
And the man that kens Her not,
Speaks, at best, he knows not what;
So his envy, or goodwill,
Neither doth her good, nor ill.
Then, fools' cavils I disdain!
And call back my Muse again,
To decipher out the rest,
For I have too long digressed.

This is She, in whom there meets
All variety of sweets!
An Epitome of all
That on earth, we, Fair may call.
Nay, yet more, I dare aver.
He that is possessed of Her,
Shall, at once, all pleasure find,
That is reaped from Womankind.
O, what man would further range,
That in one, might find such change?
What dull eye, such worth can see,
And not sworn a lover be?
Or, from whence was he, could prove
Such a monster in his love,
As, in thought, to use amiss
Such unequalled worth as this?
Pity 'twere, that such a creature
Phœnix-like, for matchless feature,
Should so suffer, or be blamed
With what, now, the Times are shamed.
Beauty (unto me, Divine!)
Makes my honest thoughts incline
Unto better things than that
Which the vulgar aimeth at.
And, I vow! I grieve to see
Any fair, and false to be;
Or when I, sweet pleasures find
Matched with a defilèd mind.
But, above all others, Her
So much doth my soul prefer,
That to him, whose ill desire
Should so nurse a lawless fire,
As to 'tempt to that which might
Dim her sacred virtue's light;
I could wish that he might die
Ere he did it! though 'twere I!
For, if She should hap to stray,
All this beauty would away!
And not her alone undo,
But kill him that praised her too!
But I know her Maker will
Keep her undistainèd still;
That ensuing Ages may
Pattern out, by Her, the way
To all goodness. And if Fate,
That appoints all things a date,
Hear me would; I'd wish that She
Might, for aye, preservèd be!
And that neither wasting cares,
Neither all-consuming years,
Might, from what She is, estrange her!
Or in mind or body change her!
For, O, why should envious Time
Perpetrate so vile a crime
As to waste, or wrong, or stain
What shall ne'er be matched again?
Much I hope it shall not be
For, if love deceive me not,
To that height of Fair she grows,
Age, or Sickness (Beauty's foes!)
Cannot so much wrong it there,
But enough there will appear
Ever worthy to be loved:
And that heart shall more be moved
(Where there is a judging eye)
With those prints it doth espy
Of her Beauty wronged by Time,
Than by others, in their prime.
One advantage she hath more
That adds grace to all before.
It is this. Her Beauty's fame
Hath not done her Honour shame,
For where Beauty we do find,
Envy still is so unkind,
That although their virtues are
Such as pass their beauties far,
Yet, on Slander's rocks they be
Shipwrecked, oftentimes, we see;
And are subject to the wrongs
Of a thousand spiteful tongues:
When the greatest fault they had
Was, that some would make them bad!
And not finding them for action,
Sought for vengeance by detraction.
But her Beauty, sure, no tongue
Is so villainous to wrong!
Never did the jealous'st ear
Any muttering rumour hear
That might cause the least suspects
Of indifferent defects.
And, which somewhat stranger is,
They, whose slanders few can miss
(Though set on by Evil Will
And Habituated Ill)
Nothing can of Her invent
Whence to frame disparagement.
Which, if we respect the crimes
Of these loose injurious Times,
Doth not only truly prove
Great discretion in her love;
And that she hath lived upright,
In each jealous tongue's despite:
But it must be understood
That her private thoughts are good.
Yea! 'tis an apparent sign
That her Beauty is Divine!
And that angels have a care
Men's polluting tongues should spare
To defile, what GOD hath given
To be dear to Earth and Heaven!

Tell me, you that hear me now!
Is there any one of you
Wanteth feeling of affection?
Or that loves not such perfection?
Can there be so dull an ear
As of so much worth to hear,
And not seriously incline
To this saint-like friend of mine?
If there be, the fault doth lie
In my artless Poesy.
For if I could reach the Strain
Which, methinks, I might obtain;
Or but make my Measures fly
Equal with my Fantasy:
I would not permit an ear
To attend unravished here;
If but so much sense it knew,
As the blocks that Orpheus drew.
Think on this description well!
And your noblest Ladies tell
"Which of you (that worth can see),
This my Mistress would not be?"
You brave English! who have run
From the rising of the sun,
Till, in travelling, you found
Where he doth conclude his round!
You! that have the beauties seen
Which, in farthest lands have been;
And surveyed the fair resorts
Of the French and Spanish Courts,
With the rest that Fame renowns
In the rich Trans-Alpine towns;
Do not (with our brainless fry,
That admire each novelty)
Wrong your country's fame in ought!
But, here, freely speak your thought!
And I durst presume you'll swear
She's not matched anywhere.
Gallants! you that would so fain
Nymphs' and Ladies' loves obtain!
You that strive to serve and please
Fairest Queens and Empresses!
Tell me this, and tell me right!
If you would not, so you might,
Leave them all, despised, to prove
What contents are in her love?
Could your fathers ever tell
Of a Nymph, did more excel?
Or hath any Story told
Of the like, in times of old?
Dido was not such a one!
Nor the Trojans' paragon!
Though they, so much favour found,
As to have their honours crowned
By the best of Poets' pens,
Ever known before or since.
For had Dido been so fair;
Old Anchises's noble heir,
Jove's command had disobeyed!
And with her, in Carthage stayed:
Where he would have quite foreswore
Seeing the Lavinian shore.
Or had Leda's daughter been,
When she was the Spartan Queen,
Equal with this Lovely One!
Menelaus had never gone
From her sight so far away,
As to leave her for a prey;
And his room to be possesst
By her wanton Phrygian guest.

But lest yet, among you some,
Think She may behind these come;
Stay a little more, and hear me!
In another Strain I'll rear me!
I'll unmask a Beauty, now,
Which to kiss, the gods may bow!
And so feelingly will move,
That your souls shall fall in love!
I have, yet, the best behind;
Her most fair, unequalled Mind!
This that I have, here, exprest
Is but that which veils the rest!
An incomparable Shrine
Of a Beauty more Divine!

Whereof, ere I farther speak;
Off again, my Song I'll break.
And if you, among the roses,
Which yon quickset hedge incloses,
Will, with plucking flowers, beguile
Tedious-seeming Time awhile;
Till I step to yonder green,
Whence the sheep so plain are seen,
I will be returnèd ere
You, an hour have stayèd there!
And, excuse me now, I pray!
Though I rudely go away!
For affairs I have to do,
Which unless I look into;
I may sing out Summer here!
Like the idle grasshopper:
And at Winter, hide my head!
Or else fast, till I am dead!
Yet if rustic Pastoral Measures
Can ought add unto your pleasures;
I will leave you some of those,
Which it pleased me to compose
When despairing fits were over,
And I, made a happy lover,
Exercised my Loving Passion
In another kind of fashion;
Than to utter, I devised,
When I feared to be despised.
Those shall lie in gage for me,
Till I back returnèd be.
And in writing, here, you have them!
Either sing! or read! or leave them!

[Fair Virtue's sweet Graces.]

SONNET I.