[Fair Virtue's moral qualities.]

See! these trees so ill did hide us,
That the Shepherd hath espied us!
And, as jealous of his cunning,
All in haste, away is running!
To entreat him back again,
Would be labour spent in vain:
You may, therefore, now betake ye,
To the Music, I can make thee!
Who do purpose my Invention
Shall pursue my first Intention.
For in Her, whose worth I tell,
Many excellences dwell
Yet unmentioned; whose perfections
Worthy are of best affections.

That, which is so rare to find
Both in Man, and Womankind;
That, whose absence, love defaceth,
And both sexes more disgraceth,
That the spite of furrowed Age,
Sicknesses, or Sorrow's rage;
That's the jewel so divine
Which doth on her forehead shine;
And therewith endowed is She
In an excellent degree:
Constancy, I mean! the purest
Of all beauties, and the surest.
For whoe'er doth that possess,
Hath an endless loveliness!
All afflictions, labours, crosses;
All our dangers, wounds, and losses;
Games of Pleasure, we can make,
For that matchless woman's sake!
In whose breast that virtue bideth:
And we joy, whate'er betideth!
Most dejected hearts it gladeth.
Twenty thousand glories addeth
Unto Beauty's brightest Ray,
And preserves it from decay!
'Tis the salt, that's made to season
Beauty, for the use of Reason!
'Tis the varnish, and the oiling,
Keeps her colours fresh from spoiling!
'Tis an excellence, whereby
Age, though joined with poverty,
Hath more dear affection won,
That fresh Youth and Wealth have done!
'Tis a loveliness endearing
Beauties, scarce worth note appearing!
Whilst a fairer, fickle Dame
Nothing gains, but scorn and shame.
Further, 'tis a beauty such
As I cannot praise too much,
Nor frame Measures to express!
No, nor any man! unless
He who (more than all men crost)
Finds it, in that woman lost;
On whose faith, he would have pawned
Life, and all he could command!
Such a man, may, by that miss,
Make us know, how dear it is!
When, o'ercharged with grief, he shall
Sigh, and break his heart withal.

This is that Perfection which
In her favour, makes me rich!
All whose beauties named before,
Else, would but torment me more:
And in having this, I find,
Whate'er haps, a quiet mind!
Yea, 'tis that, which I do prize
Far above her lips, her eyes;
Or that general beauty, whence
Shines each several excellence.

For, alas! what gained hath he,
Who may clip the fairest She,
That the name of Woman bears;
If, unhappily, he fears
Any other's worth may win
What he thought his own had been?
Him, base minded deem I should,
Who (although he were in hold,
Wrapt in chains) would not disdain
Love with her, to entertain!
That, both daughter to a Peer,
And most rich and lovely were;
When a brainless Gull should dare
In her favours with him share;
Or the action of a Player
Rob him of a hope so fair.

This, I dread not! For I know
Strainèd gestures, painted show,
Shameless boastings, borrowed jests,
Female looks, gay-plumed crests,
Vows, nor protestations vain
(Wherewith fools are made so vain)
Move Her can! save to contemn,
Or, perhaps, to laugh at them.
Neither can I doubt or fear,
Time shall either change or wear
This her virtue, or impair
That which makes her soul so fair!
In which trust great comforts are,
Which the fear of loss would mar.
Nor hath this my rare hope stood
So much in her being good,
With her love to Blessèd Things;
As in her acknowledgings
From a Higher Power, to have them!
And her love to Him that gave them!
For, although to have a mind
Naturally to Good inclined,
And to love it, would assure
Reason that it might endure:
Yet, since man was first unjust,
There's no warrant for such trust!
Virtues that, most wonder win,
Would converted be to Sin;
If their flourishings began
From no better root than Man!
Our best virtues (when they are
Of themselves) we may compare
To the beauty of a Flower,
That is blasted in an hour;
And which growing to be fuller,
Turns into some loathèd colour:
But those (being freely given,
And confirmed in us from Heaven)
Have a promise on them past
And for evermore shall last!
Diamond like, their lustre clearing,
More and more, by use and wearing!

But if this rare Worth I praise,
Should, by Fate's permission, raise
Passions in some gentle breast
That distemper may his rest:
And be author of such treason
As might nigh endanger Reason;
Or enforce his tongue to crave
What another man must have.
Mark, in such a strait as this,
How discreet her dealing is!
She is nothing of their humours
Who, their honour build on rumours;
And had rather private sporting,
Than allow of open courting:
Nor of theirs, that would seem holy
By divulging other's folly.
Farther is She from their guise
That delight to tyrannise;
Or make boastings, in espying
Others, for their favours dying.
She, a spirit doth possess
So replete with Nobleness,
That if She be there beloved;
Where she ought not to be moved
Equally to love again:
She doth so well entertain
That affection, as there's none
Can suppose it ill bestown.
From Deluding, She is free!
From Disdain, as far is She!
And so feelingly bears part
Of what pains another's heart;
That no curse of scornèd duty,
Shall draw vengeance on her beauty:
Rather, with so tender fear
Of her honour, and their care,
She is touched; that neither shall
Wrong unto herself befall
By the favour She doth show;
Nor will She neglect them so
As may just occasion give
Any way to make them grieve.
Hope, She will not let them see!
Lest they should presuming be;
And aspire to that, which none
Ever must enjoy but One.
From Despair, She keeps them too!
Fearing they might hap to do,
Either through Love's indiscretions,
Or much over stirrèd passions,
What might, with their hurt and shame,
Into question, call her name;
And a scandal on her bring
Who is just in everything.
She hath marked how others run,
And by them hath learnt to shun
Both their fault, who, over wise,
Err by being too precise;
And their folly, that o'er kind,
Are to all complaints inclined.
For her Wit hath found the way
How, a while, to hold them play;
And that inconvenience shun
Whereinto both seem to run,
By allowing them a scope
Just betwixt Despair and Hope:
Where confined, and reaching neither,
They do take a part in either;
Till, long living in suspense,
Tired by her Indifference,
Time, at last, their Passion wears.
Passions wearing, Reason clears!
Reason gives their Judgement light!
Judgement bringeth all to right!
So, their Hope appearing vain;
They become themselves again!
And with high applauses (fit
For such Virtue with such Wit)
They, that service only proffer,
She may take, and they may offer!
Yet, this course she never proves
Save with those, whose virtuous loves
Use the noblest means of gaining
Favours, worthy the obtaining.
And if such should chance to err
Either 'gainst themselves, or Her,
In some oversights, when they
Are, through Passion, led astray;
She, so well man's frailty knows!
With the darts, that Beauty throws!
As she will not, adding terror,
Break the heart, for one poor error!
Rather, if still good they be,
Twenty remedies hath She
Gently to apply, where Sense
Hath invaded Reason's fence:
And, without a wound, or scar,
Turns to peace, a lawless war.
But to those, whose baser fires
Breathe out smoke of such desires
As may dim, with impure steams,
Any part of Beauty's beams:
She will deign no milder way,
Those foul burnings to allay;
Save with such extreme neglect
As shall work her wished effect.
And to use so sharp a cure,
She's not oft constrainèd, sure,
'Cause, on her forehead, still,
Goodness sits; so feared of Ill!
That the scorn and high disdains
Wherewithal she entertains
Those loathed glances, giveth ending
To such flamings the tynding
That their coolèd hopes needs must
Freeze Desires in heat of Lust.

'Tis a power that never lies
In the fair'st immodest eyes!
Wantons! 'tis not your sweet eyings,
Forcèd passions, feignèd dyings,
Gestures' temptings, tears' beguilings,
Dancings, singings, kissings, smilings!
Nor those painted sweets, with which,
You, unwary men bewitch!
All united, nor asunder
That can compass such a Wonder!
Or, to win you love prevails,
Where her moving virtues fails.
Beauties! 'tis not all those features,
Placèd in the fairest creatures;
Though their best they should discover,
That can tempt from Her, a lover!
'Tis not those soft snowy breasts
Where Love, rocked in Pleasure, rests;
And by their continual motions
Draweth hearts to vain devotions!
Nor the nectar that we sip
From the honey-dropping lip!
Nor those eyes, whence Beauty's lances
Wound the heart with wanton glances!
Nor those sought delights that lie
In Love's hidden treasury!
That can liking gain, where She
Will the best belovèd be!
For should those who think they may
Draw my love from her away,
Bring forth all their female graces!
Wrap me in their close embraces!
Practise all the Art they may!
Weep! or sing! or kiss! or pray!
And, with sighs and looks, come woo me!
When they soonest may undo me,
One poor thought of Her would arm me
So, as Circe could not harm me!
Since besides those excellences
Wherewith others please the Senses,
She, whom I have prizèd so,
Yields delights for Reason too!

Who could dote on thing so common
As mere outward-handsome woman?
Those Half-Beauties only win
Fools, to let affection in!
Vulgar wits, from Reason shaken,
Are with such impostures taken!
And, with all their art in love,
Wantons can but wantons move!
But when, unto those are joined,
Those things which adorn the Mind;
None their excellences see,
But they straight enthrallèd be!
Fools and wise men, worst and best,
Subjects are to Love's Arrest;
For when Virtue wooes a lover
She's an unresisted mover,
That will have no kind of "Nay!"
And in love, brooks no delay.
She can make the sensual wights
To restrain their appetites;
And her beauty, when they see,
Spite of Vice, in love to be:
Yea, (although themselves be bad)
Praise the good they never had!
She hath to her service brought
Those that Her have set at nought,
And can fair enough appear
To inflame the most severe.
She hath, oft, allurèd out
The religiously devout
From their cloisters, and their vows,
To embrace what She allows!
And to such contentments come
As blind Zeal had barred them from;
While (her laws misunderstood)
They did Ill, for love of Good.
Where I find True Worth to be
Sweetest are their lips to me!
And embraces tempt me so,
More than outward beauties do,
That my firm belief is this;
If I ever do amiss,
Seeming-Good, the bait will lay,
That to Ill, shall me betray.
Since where Shews of Goodness are,
I am oft emboldened there,
Freedoms so permit and use,
Which I elsewhere do refuse;
For because I think they mean,
To allow no deed unclean.
Yet where two, love Virtue shall,
Both, at once, they seldom fall!
For when one hath thoughts of Ill,
T'other helps exile them still.

My Fair Virtue's power is this,
And that power the beauty is
Which doth make Her, here exprest,
Equally both Fair and Blest:
This! was that contenting grace
Which affection made me place
With so dear respect, that never
Can it fail, but last for ever.
This! a Servant made me sworn,
Who, before time, held in scorn
To yield vassalage or duty;
Though unto the Queen of Beauty!
Yet that I, her Servant am,
It shall more be to my fame,
Than to own these woods and downs,
Or be Lord of fifty towns:
And, my Mistress, to be deemed,
Should more honour be esteemed
Than those titles to acquire
Which most women most desire.
Yea, when you a woman shall,
Countess, or a Duchess call:
That respect it shall not move,
Neither gain her half such love
As to say, "Lo! this is She
That supposèd is to be
Mistress to Phil'arete!
And that lovely Nymph, which he
In a Pastoral Poem famed,
And Fair Virtue, there hath named!"
Yea, some ladies (ten to one!)
If not many, now unknown,
Will be very well apaid
When, by chance, she hears it said
She that "Fair One" is, whom I
Have, here, praised concealedly.
And though, now, this Age's Pride
May so brave a Hope deride;
Yet, when all their glories pass,
As the thing that never was,
And on monuments appear
That they e'er had breathing here,
Who envy it; She shall thrive
In her fame, and honoured live;
While Great Britain's Shepherds sing
English in their Sonneting!
And whoe'er, in future days,
Shall bestow the utmost praise
On his love, that any man
Attribute to creature can;
'Twill be this! that he hath dared,
His and Mine to have compared.
O, what stars did shine on me,
When her eyes I first did see!
And how good was their aspect,
When we first did both affect!
For I never since to changing
Was inclined, or thought of ranging!

Me, so oft my Fancy drew
Here and there, that I ne'er knew
Where to place Desire, before,
So that range it might no more.
But as he that passeth by
Where, in all her jollity,
Flora's riches, in a row,
Doth in seemly order grow;
And a thousand flowers stand,
Bending as to kiss his hand:
Out of which delightful store,
One, he may take, and no more!
Long he pausing, doubteth whether
Of those fair ones he should gather.
First, the Primrose courts his eyes!
Then, the Cowslip he espies!
Next, the Pansy seems to woo him!
Then, Carnations bow unto him!
Which, whilst that enamoured Swain
From the stalk, intends to strain;
(As half fearing to be seen)
Prettily, her leaves between,
Peeps the Violet! pale to see
That her virtues slightèd be:
Which so much his liking wins
That, to seize her, he begins;
Yet before he stooped so low
He, his wanton eye did throw
On a stem that grew more high,
And the Rose did there espy.
Who, besides her precious scent,
To procure his eyes' content,
Did display her goodly breast;
Where he found, at full exprest,
All the Good that Nature showers
On a thousand other flowers.
Wherewith he, affected, takes it!
His Beloved Flower, he makes it!
And, without desire of more,
Walks through all he saw before.
So I, wandering but erewhile,
Through the Garden of this Isle,
Saw rich Beauties, I confess,
And in number, numberless;
And so differing lovely too,
That I had a world to do,
Ere I could set up my rest
Where to choose, and choose the best.
One I saw, whose Hair excellèd!
On another's Brow there dwellèd
Such a Majesty, it seemed
She was best to be esteemed!
This had, with her Speeches won me!
That, with Silence had undone me!
On her Lips, the Graces hung!
T'other charmed me with her tongue!
In her Eyes, a third did bear
That which did anew ensnare!
Then a fourth did fairer show,
Yet wherein I did not know!
Only this perceivèd I,
Somewhat pleased my Fantasy.
Now the Wealth, I most esteemed!
Honour then, I better deemed!
Next, the love of Beauty seized me!
And then Virtue better pleased me!
Juno's love I nought esteemed!
Whilst a Venus fairer seemed!
Nay, both could not me suffice,
Whilst a Pallas was more wise!
Though I found enough in One
To content, if still alone.
Amarillis, I did woo!
And I courted Phillis too!
Daphne, for her love I chose!
Cloris, for that damask rose
In her cheek, I held as dear!
Yea, a thousand liked, well near!
And in love with All together,
Feared the enjoying Either!
'Cause to be, of one possest,
Barred the hope of all the rest.

Thus I fondly fared, till Fate,
(Which I must confess, in that,
Did a greater favour to me,
Than the world can malice do me)
Shewed to me that matchless flower
Subject for this Song of our.
Whose perfection having eyed
Reason instantly espied,
That Desire, which ranged abroad,
There, would find a period.
And, no marvel! if it might:
For it, there, hath all Delight;
And in Her, hath Nature placed
What each several Fair once graced.
Nor am I, alone delighted,
With those graces, all united,
Which the Sense's eye doth find
Scattered throughout Womankind.
But my Reason finds perfections
To inflame my Soul's affections:
Yea, such virtues She possesseth,
As, with firmest pleasures blesseth;
And keeps sound that Beauty's state,
Which would else grow ruinate.
In this Flower are sweets, such store:
I shall never wish for more!
Nor be tempted out to stray
For the fairest buds in May!

Let, who list! for me, advance
The admired flowers of France!
Let, who will! praise and behold
The reservèd Marigold!
Let the sweet-breathed Violet, now,
Unto whom she pleaseth, bow!
And the fairest Lily spread,
Where she will, her golden head!
I have such a flower to wear;
That for those, I do not care!
Never shall my Fancy range!
Nor once think again of change!
Never will I, never more!
Grieve or sigh, as heretofore!
Nor within the lodgings lie
Of Despair, or Jealousy!
Let the young and happy Swains,
Playing on the Britain plains,
Court, unblamed, their shepherdesses!
And with their gold-curlèd tresses
Toy uncensured! until I
Grudge at their prosperity!
Let all Times, both Present, Past;
And the Age that shall be last;
Vaunt the beauties they bring forth!
I have found in One, such worth!
That, content, I neither care
What the best before me were;
Nor desire to live and see
Who shall fair hereafter be.
For I know the hand of Nature
Will not make a fairer creature!
Which, because succeeding days
Shall confess, and add their praise
In approving what my tongue
(Ere they had their being) sung:
Once again, come, lend an ear!
And a Rapture you shall hear
(Though I taste no Thespian spring)
Will amaze you; whilst I sing!
I do feel new Strains inspiring,
And to such brave heights aspiring;
That my Muse will touch a key,
Higher than you've heard to-day!
I have Beauties to unfold
That deserve a Pen of Gold!
Sweets that never dreamed of were!
Things unknown; and such as Ear
Never heard a Measure sound
Since the sun first ran his round!

When Apelles limbed to life,
Loathèd Vulcan's lovely wife;
With such beauties he did turn
Each sweet feature, and each limb,
And so curiously did place
Every well becoming grace;
That 'twas said, ere he could draw
Such a Piece, he naked saw
Many women in their prime
And the fairest of that Time;
From all which, he, parts did take,
Which, aright disposed, make
Perfect Beauty. So when you
Know what I have yet to show,
It will seem to pass so far
Those things which expressèd are;
That you will suppose I've been
Privileged, where I have seen
All the Good that's spread in parts
Through a thousand women's hearts!
With their fair'st conditions lie
Bare, without hypocrisy!
And that I have took from thence,
Each dispersèd excellence
To express Her, who hath gained
More than ever One obtained.
And yet, soft! I fear, in vain
I have boasted such a Strain!
Apprehensions ever are
Greater than Expression, far!
And my striving to disclose
What I know, hath made me lose
My Invention's better part:
And my Hopes exceed my Art!
Speak, I can; yet Think I more!
Words, compared with Thoughts, are poor!
And I find, had I begun
Such a Strain, it would be done
When we number all the sands
Washed o'er perjured Godwin's lands.
For of things I should indite,
Which, I know are infinite.

I do yield! My Thoughts did climb
Far above the power of Rhyme!
And no wonder it is so,
Since there is no Art can show
Red in roses, white in snow;
Nor express how they do grow.
Yea, since bird, beast, stone, and tree,
That inferior creatures be,
Beauties have, which we confess
Lines unable to express;
They more hardly can enrol
Those that do adorn a Soul.
But suppose my Measures could
Reach the height, I thought they would:
Now, relate, I would not though,
What did swell within me so.
For if I should all descry,
You would know as much as I!
And those clowns the Muses hate,
Would of things above them, prate!
Or, with their profaning eyes,
Come to view those mysteries
Whereof, since they disesteemed them,
Heaven hath unworthy deemed them!
And besides, it seems to me,
That your ears nigh tirèd be!
I perceive the fire that charmeth
And inspireth me, scarce warmeth
Your chill hearts! Nay, sure, were I
Melted into Poesy,
I should not a Measure hit,
(Though Apollo prompted it)
Which should able be to leave
That in you, which I conceive!
You are cold! and here I may
Waste my vital heat away
Ere you will be moved so much
As to feel one perfect touch
Of those Sweets; which, yet concealed,
Swell my breast, to be revealed.

Now, my Words, I therefore cease!
That my mounting Thoughts, in peace,
May, alone, those pleasures share,
Whereof Lines unworthy are!
And so you, an end do see,
Of my Song; though long it be!

SONNET II.

SONNET III.

SONNET IV.

SONNET V.

[Fair Virtue's moral qualities.]