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Full glory flaming in her own free sphere.
Gladness shall clothe the Earth, we will instile
The face of things an universal smile :

Say to the sullen Morn thou com'st to court her,
And wilt demand proud Zephyrus to sport her
With wanton gales; his balmy breath shall lick
The tender drops which tremble on her cheek ;
Which rarified, and in a gentle rain

On those delicious banks distill'd again,
Shall rise in a sweet Harvest, which discloses
Two ever-blushing bed[s] of new-born roses.
He'll fan her bright locks, teaching them to flow,
And frisk in curl'd meanders: he will throw
A fragrant breath suck'd from the spicy nest
O' th' precious phoenix, warm upon her breast.
He with a dainty and soft hand will trim

And brush her azure mantle, which shall swim
In silken volumes; wheresoe'er she'll tread
Bright clouds like golden fleeces shall be spread.

Rise then (fair blue-eyed maid!) rise and discover
Thy silver brow, and meet thy golden lover.
See how he runs, with what a hasty flight,
Into thy bosom, bath'd with liquid light.

Fly, fly profane fogs, far hence fly away,
Taint not the pure streams of the springing Day,
With your dull influence; it is for you

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To sit and scowl upon Night's heavy brow,
Not on the fresh cheeks of the virgin Morn,

Where naught but smiles and ruddy joys are worn.
Fly then, and do not think with her to stay;

Let it suffice, she'll wear no mask to-day.




Whoe'er she be,

That not impossible She

That shall command my heart and me ;

Where'er she lie,

Lock'd up from mortal eye,

In shady leaves of destiny:

Till that ripe Birth

Of studied Fate stand forth,

And teach her fair steps tread our earth;

Till that divine = shee = frisca as in Doring

Idea take a shrine

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:

Meet you her, my Wishes,

Bespeak her to my blisses,

And be ye call'd, my absent kisses.

I wish her beauty,

That owes not all its duty

To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie,—

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Something more than

Taffeta or tissue can,

Or rampant feather, or rich fan,—

More than the spoil

Of shop, or silkworm's toil,

Or a bought blush, or a set smile;

A Face that's best

By its own beauty dress'd,

And can alone commend the rest,

A Face made up

Out of no other shop

Than what Nature's white hand sets ope;

A Cheek where youth

And blood, with pen of Truth

Write what their reader sweetly ru'th,—

A Cheek where grows

More than a morning rose,

Which to no box [its] being owes ;

Lips, where all day

A lover's kiss may play,

Yet carry nothing thence away;

Looks that oppress

Their richest tires, but dress

Themselves in simple nakedness;

Eyes, that displace

The neighbour diamond, and out-face

That sunshine by their own sweet grace;

Tresses, that wear

Jewels, but to declare

How much themselves more precious are,—

Whose native ray

Can tame the wanton day

Of gems that in their bright shades play, —

Each ruby there

Or pearl that dare appear,

Be its own blush, be its own tear ;

A well-tamed Heart

For whose more noble smart

Love may be long choosing a dart;

Eyes that bestow

Full quivers on Love's bow,

Yet pay less arrows than they owe ;

Smiles that can warm

The blood, yet teach a charm

That chastity shall take no harm;

Blushes that bin

The burnish of no sin,

Nor flames of aught too hot within ;

Joys that confess

Virtue their Mistress,

And have no other head to dress;

Fears fond, and flight,

As the coy bride's when night
First does the longing lover right;

Tears quickly fled

And vain, as those are shed

For a dying maidenhead ;

Days that need borrow

No part of their good morrow

From a fore-spent night of sorrow,

Days that, in spite

Of darkness, by the light

Of a clear mind are day all night;

Nights sweet as they,

Made short by lovers' play,

Yet long by the absence of the day;

Life that dares send

A challenge to his end,

And when it comes say-Welcome, friend!

Sidneian showers

Of sweet discourse, whose powers


Can crown old Winter's head with flowers;

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