A face made up,

Out of no other shop

Than what natures white hand sets ope.

A cheeke where Youth,

And Blood, with Pen of Truth
Write, what the Reader sweetly ru'th.

A Cheeke where growes
More than a Morning Rose :
Which to no Boxe his being owes.

Lipps, where all Day
A lovers kisse may play,
Yet carry nothing thence away.

Lookes that oppresse

Their richest Tires, but dresse
And cloath their simplest Nakednesse.

Eyes, that displaces

The Neighbour Diamond, and out-faces That Sunshine, by their own sweet Graces.

Tresses, that weare

Jewells, but to declare

How much themselves more pretious are.

Whose native Ray,

Can tame the wanton Day

Of Gems, that in their bright shades play.

Each Ruby there,

Or Pearle that dare appeare,

Be its own blush, be its own Teare.

A well tam'd Heart,

For whose more noble smart,

Love may be long chusing a Dart.

Eyes, that bestow

Full quivers on loves Bow;

Yet pay lesse Arrowes than they owe.

Smiles, that can warme
The blood, yet teach a charme,
That Chastity shall take no harme.

Blushes, that bin

The burnish of no sin,

Nor flames of ought too hot within.

Joyes, that confesse,

Vertue their Mistresse,

And have no other head to dresse.

Feares, fond and flight,

As the coy Brides, when Night
First does the longing Lover right.

Teares, quickly fled,
And vaine, as those are shed
For a dying Maydenhead.

Dayes, that need borrow,
No part of their good Morrow,
From a fore spent night of sorrow.

Dayes, that in spight

Of Darkenesse, by the Light
Of a cleere mind are Day all Night.

Nights, sweet as they,

Made short by Lovers play,

Yet long by th' absence of the Day.

Life, that dares send

A challenge to his end,

And when it comes say Welcome Friend.

Sydnæan showers

Óf sweet discourse, whose powers

Can Crown old Winters head with flowers.

Soft silken Hours,

Open sunnes, shady Bowers;

'Bove all, Nothing within that lowers.

What ere Delight

Can make Dayes forehead bright,

Or give Downe to the Wings of Night.

In her whole frame,

Have Nature all the Name,

Art and ornament the shame.

Her flattery,

Picture and Poesy,

Her counsell her owne vertue be.

I wish, her store

Of worth may leave her poore
Of wishes; Ánd I wish

Now if Time knowes

That her whose radiant Browes
Weave them a Garland of my vowes,

Her whose just Bayes,

My future hopes can raise,
A trophie to her present praise;

Her that dares be,

What these Lines wish to see:
I seeke no further, it is she.

'Tis she, and here

Lo I uncloath and cleare,
My wishes cloudy Character.

May she enjoy it,
Whose merit dare apply it,
But modestly dares still deny it.

Such worth as this is
Shall fixe my flying wishes,

And determine them to kisses.

No more.

Let her full Glory,

My fancyes, fly before ye,
Be ye my fictions; But her story.

Ad Reginam,

Et sibi & Academiæ pa[r]turientem.

Ucô sacris circumflua cœtibus,

H

Huc ô frequentem, Musa, choris pedem Fer, annuo doctum labore

Purpureas agitare cunas. Facunditatem provocat, en, tuam Maria partu nobilis altero,

Prolémque Musarum ministram Egregius sibi poscit Infans. Nempe Illa nunquam pignore simplici Sibive soli facta puerpera est:

Partu repercusso, vel absens,

Perpetuos procreat gemellos. Hos Ipsa partus scilicet efficit, Ing ipsa vires carmina suggerit,

Que spiritum vitámque donat

Principibus simul & Camoenis. Possit Camoenas, non sine Numine, Lassare nostras Diva puerpera,

Et gaudiis siccare totam Perpetuis Heliconis undam. Quin experiri pergat, & in vices Certare sanctis conditionibus.

Lis dulcis est, nec indecoro
Pulvere, sic potuisse vinci.

Alternis Natura Diem meditatur & Umbras,
Hinc atro, hinc albo pignore facta parens.
Tu melior Natura tuas, dulcissima, servas

(Sed quam dissimili sub ratione!) vices. Candida Tu, & partu semper Tibi concolor omni : Hinc Natam, hinc Natum das; sed utrinque Diem.

To the Queen

An Apologie for the length of the following Panegyrick.

W

7 Hen you are Mistresse of the song,
Mighty Queen, to thinke it
long,
Were treason 'gainst that Majesty
Your vertue wears. Your modesty
Yet thinks it so. But ev'n that too
(Infinite, since part of You)
New matter for our Muse supplies,
And so allowes what it denies.
Say then Dread Queen, how may we doe
To mediate 'twixt your self and You?
That so our sweetly temper'd song
Nor be [too] short, nor seeme [too] long.
Needs must your Noble prayses strength
That made it long excuse the length.