Beauty

A heaven on earth.

At whose sight all the stars Hide their diminish’d heads. 6

Dark with excessive bright.

His form had yet not lost All her original brightness, nor appear’d Less than archangel ruin’d, and th’ excess Of glory obscur’d.

Sabrina fair, Listen where thou art sitting Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, In twisted braids of lilies knitting The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair; Listen for dear honor’s sake, Goddess of the silver lake, Listen and save.

Beauty is Nature’s brag, and must be shown In courts, at feasts, and high solemnities, Where most may wonder at the workmanship; It is for homely features to keep home— They had their name thence; coarse complexions And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply The sampler, and to tease the huswife’s wool. What need a vermeil-tinctur’d lip for that, Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn?

Beauty is Nature’s coin, must not be hoarded, But must be current, and the good thereof Consists in mutual and partaken bliss.

And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced choir below, In service high, and anthems clear As may, with sweetness, through mine ear Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.

Ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize.

Meadows trim, with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide; Towers and battlements it sees Bosom’d high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes.

The magic of a face.

He that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or, from starlike eyes, doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away.

Ask me no more if east or west The Phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauty’s orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters and keeps warm her note.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky.

Who says that fictions only and false hair Become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty? 3

In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not wither’d be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent’st it back to me; Since when it grows and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee.

Underneath this stone doth lie As much beauty as could die; Which in life did harbor give To more virtue than doth live.

Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free, Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art: They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast.

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess, excellently bright.