That is the thing which giveth pleasant grace
To all things fair, that kindleth lively fire,
Light of thy lamp, which fhining in the face,
Thence to the foul darts amorous defire,
And robs the hearts of thofe which it admire;
Therewith thou pointeft thy fon's poif'ned arrow,
That wounds the life, and wastes the inmoft

marrow.

How vainly then do idle wits invent,

That Beauty is nought elfe but mixture made
Of colours fair, and goodly temp'rament
Of pure complexions, that fhall quickly fade
And pafs away, like to a summer's fhade;
Or that it is but comely compofition

Of parts well measur'd, with meet disposition;

Hath white and red in it fuch wondrous powre, That it can pierce through th' eyes unto the heart,

And therein ftir fuch rage and reftleffe ftowre,
As nought but death can stint his dolorous smart?
Or can proportion of the outward part
Move fuch affection in the inward mind,
That it can rob both sense and reafon blind?

Why do not then the bloffoms of the field,
Which are array'd with much more orient hue,
And to the fenfe most dainty odours yield,
Work like impreffion in the looker's view?
Or why do not fair pictures like powre fhew,
In which oft-times we Nature fee of Art
Excell'd, in perfect limming every part?

But ah! believe me there is more than fo,
That works fuch wonders in the minds of men;
1 that have often prov'd too well it know,
And whofo lift the like affays to ken,
Shall find by trial, and confefs it then,
That Beauty is not, as fond men misdeem,
An outward fhew of things that only seem.

For that fame goodly hue of white and red,
With which the cheeks are fprinkled, fhall
decay,

And thofe fweet rofie leaves, fo fairly fpred
Upon the lips, fhall fade and fall away
To that they were, even to corrupted clay :
That golden wire, thofe fparkling stars fo bright,
Shall turn to duft, and lofe their goodly light.

But that fair lamp, from whose celestial ray
That light proceeds, which kindleth lovers' fire,
Shall never be extinguisht, nor decay,
But when the vital fpirits do expire,
Unto her native planct fhall retire;
For it is heavenly born and cannot die,
Being a parcell of the purest sky.

For when the foul, the which derived was,
At first, out of that great immortal fpright,
By whom all live to love, whylom did pafs
Down from the top of pureft heaven's hight
Fo be embodied here, it then took light

Thereof it comes, that these fair fouls, which have

The most resemblance of that heavenly light,
Frame to themfelves most beautiful and brave
Their fleshly bowre, moft fit for their delight,
And the grofs matter by a fovereign might
Temper fo trim, that it may well be feen
A palace fit for fuch a virgin queen.

So every fpirit, as it is moft pure,
And hath in it the more of heavenly light,
So it the fairer body doth procure
To habit, and it more fairely dight
With chearful grace and amiable fight;
For of the foul the body form doth take;
For foul is form, and doth the body make.

Therefore where-ever that thou doft behold
A comely corpfe, with beauty fair endewed,
Know this for certain, that the fame doth hold
A beauteous foul, with fair conditions thewed,
Fit to receive the feed of vertue strewed;
For all that fair is, is by nature good;
That is a fign to know the gentle blood.

Yet oft it falls that many a gentle mind
Dwells in deformed tabernacle dround,
Either by chance, against the course of kind,
Or through unaptnefs in the fubftance found,
Which it affumed of fome ftubborn ground,
That will not yield unto her form's direction,
But is perform'd with fone foul imperfection.

And oft it falls (ay me, the more to rue!).
That goodly Beauty, albe heavenly born,
Is foul abuf'd, and that celestial hue,
Which doth the world with her delight adorn,
Made but the bait of fin, and finners' fcorn,
Whilft every one doth feek and fue to have it,
But every one doth feck but to deprave it.

Yet nathemore is that fair Beauty's blame,
But theirs that do abufe it unto ill:

Nothing to good, but that through guilty shame
May be corrupt, and wrested unto will:
Nathelefs the foul is fair and beauteous ftill,
However flethes fault it filthy make,
For things immortal no corruption take.

But ye, fair Dames! the world's dear ornaments,
And lively images of heaven's light,
Let not your beams with fuch difparagements
Hh ij

quite;

But mindful still of your first country's fight,
Do ftill preserve your firft informed grace,
Whofe fhadow yet fhines in your beauteous face.

Loath that foul blot, that hellish firebrand,
Difloyal luft, fair Beauty's fouleft blame,
That bafe affection, which your ears would bland,
Commend to you by Love's abufed name,
But is indeed the bond-flave of Defame,
Which will the girland of your glory mar,
And quench the fight of your bright-fhining
ftar.

But gentle Love, that loyal is and true,
Will more illumine your refplendent ray,
And add more brightnefs to your goodly hue,
From light of his pure fire, which by like way
Kindled of your's, your likenefs doth display;
Like as two mirrours by oppof'd reflection,
Do both exprefs the face's firft impreffion.

Therefore to make your beauty more appear,
It you behoves to love, and forth to lay
That heavenly riches which in you ye bear,
That men the more admire their fountain may;
For elfe what booteth that celestial ray,
If it in darkness be enshrined ever,
That it of loving eyes be viewed never?

But in your choice of loves this well advife,
That likeft to your felves ye them felect,
The which your forms' first fource may fympa.

thize,

And with like beauty's parts be inly deckt;
For if you loosely love without refpect,
It is not love, but a difcordant war,
Whofe unlike parts amongst themselves do jar.

For love is a celeftial harmony

Of likely hearts compof'd of ftars' confent,
Which join together in sweet sympathy,
To work each other's joy and true confent,
Which they have harbour'd fince their firft

defcent

Out of their heavenly bowres, where they did fee,
And know each other here beloy'd to be.

Then wrong it were that any other twain
Should in Love's gentle band combined be
But those whoma Heaven did at first ordain,
And made out of one mould the more t' agree;
For all that like the beauty which they fee
Straight do not love; for Love is not fo light
As ftraight to burn at first beholder's fight.

But they which love indeed look otherwise,
With pure regard and fpotle's true intent,
Drawing out of the object of their eyes
A more refined form, which they prefent
Unto their mind, void of all blemishment;
Which it reducing to her firft perfection,
Beholdeth free from flefh's frail infection.

Which in itself it hath remaining still,
Of that first sun, yet sparkling in his fight,
Thereof he fashions in his higher skill
An heavenly beauty to his fancy's will,
And it embracing in his mind entire,
The mirrour of his own thought doth admire.

Which feeing now fo inly fair to be,
As outward it appeareth to the eye,
And with his fpirit's proportion to agree,
He thereon fixing all his fantasie,
And fully fetteth his felicity,
Counting it fairer than it is indeed,
And yet indeed her fairness doth exceed.

For lovers' eyes more sharply fighted be
Than other mens, and in dear love's delight
See more than any other eyes can see,
Through mutual receipt of beames bright,
Which carry privy meffage to the fpright,
And to their eyes that inmost fair display,
As plain as light discovers dawning day.

Therein they fee, through amorous eye-glaunces,
Armies of Loves still flying to and fro,
Which dart at them their little fiery launces;
Whom having wounded, back again they go,
Carrying compaffion to their lovely foe;
Who fecing her fair eyes' fo fharp effect,
Cures all their forrows with one sweet afped.

In which how many wonders do they reed
To their conceit, that others never fee?
Now of her fmiles, with which their fouls they
feed,

Like gods with nectar in their banquets free;
Now of her looks, which like to cordials be;
But when her words' embaffade forth the fend
Lord, how fweet mufick that unto them lends

Sometimes upon her forehead they behold
A thousand graces masking in delight,
Sometimes within her eye-lids they unfold
Ten thousand fweet belgards, which to ther
fight

Do seem like twinkling ftars in frofty night;
But on her lips, like rofie buds in May,
So many millions of chaste Pleasures play.

All thofe, O Cytherea! and thousands more
Thy handmaids be, which do on thee attend,
To deck thy beauty with their dainties' ftort,
That may it more to mortal eyes commend,
And make it more admir'd of foe and friend,
That in mens hearts thou maift thy thr
install,

And spread thy lovely kingdom over all.

Then lö, triumph! O great Beauty's Queen,
Advance the banner of thy conqueft high,
That all this world, the which thy vaffals bren,
May draw to thee, and with due fealty
Adore the powre of thy great majefty,

Love, lift me up upon thy golden wings
From this bafe world unto thy heavens hight,
Where I may fee those admirable things
Which there thou workest by thy fovereign might,
Far above feeble reach of earthly fight,
That I thereof an heavenly Hymn may fing
Unto the God of Love, high Heaven's King,

Many lewd lays (ah! woe is me the more!)
In praife of that mad fit which fools call Love,
I have in th' heat of youth made heretofore,
That in light wits did loofe affection move;
But all thofe follies now I do reprove,
And turned have the tenor of my string,
The heavenly praifes of true Love to fing.

And ye that wont with greedy vain defire
To read my fault, and, wondring at my flame,
To warm your felves at my wide sparkling fire,
Sith now that heat is quenched, quench my blame,
And in her ashes fhrowd my dying shame;
For who my paffed follies now pursues,
Begins his own, and my old fault renews.

Before this world's great frame, in which all things
Are now contain'd, found any being-place,
Ere flitting Time could wag his eyas wings
About that mighty bound which doth embrace
The rolling fphere, and parts their howers by
fpace,

That high eternal Powre, which now doth move
In all these things, mov'd in it felf by love.

Can comprehend, much lefs my trembling verle
With equal words can hope it to reherse

Yet, O moft bleffed Spirit! pure lamp of light,
Eternal fpring of grace and wifdom true,
Vouchiafe to fhed into my barren spright
Some little drop of thy celeftial dew,
That may my rimes with fweet infufe embrew,
And give me words equal unto my thought,
To tell the marveils by thy mercy wrought.

Yet being pregnant ftill with powreful grace,
And full of fruitful Love, that loves to get
Things like himfelf, and to enlarge his race,
His fecond brood, though not of powre io great,
Yet full of beauty, next he did beget,
An infinite increase of angels bright,
All glifting glorious in their Maker's light.