Song VIII

I would thy beauties wonders show,
Which none can tell, yet all do know:
Thou borrowes nought to moue delight,
Thy beauties (Deare) are all perfite.
And at the head Ile first begin,
Most rich without, more rich within:
Within a place Minerua claimes,
Without, Apollo's golden beames,
Whose smiling waues those seas may scorne,
Where Beauties goddesse earst was borne:
And yet do boast a world with death,
If toss'd with gales of thy sweet breath.
I for two crescents take thy browes,
Or rather for two bended bowes,
Whose archer loue, whose white mens harts,
Thy frownes, no, smiles, smiles are thy darts;
Which to my ruine euer bent,
Are oft discharg'd but neuer spent.
Thy sunnes, I dare not say, thine eyes,
Which oft do set, and oft do rise:
Whil'st in thy faces heau'n they moue,
Giue light to all the world of loue:
And yet do whiles defraud our sight,
Whil'st two white clouds eclipse their light.
The laborinthes of thine eares,
Where Beautie both her colours reares,
Are lawne laid on a scarlet ground,
Whereas Loues ecchoes euer sound:
Thy cheekes, strawberries dipt in milke,
As white as snow, as soft as silke;
Gardens of lillies and of roses,
Where Cupid still himselfe reposes,
And on their daintie rounds he sits,
When he would charme the rarest wits.
Those swelling vales which beautie owes,
Are parted with a dike of snowes:
The line that still is stretch'd out euen,
And doth deuide thy faces heauen:
It hath the prospect of those lippes,
From which no word vnballanc'd slippes:
There is a grot by Nature fram'd,
Which Art to follow is asham'd:
All those whom fame for rare giues foorth,
Compar'd with this are little woorth,
'Tis all with pearles and rubies set;
But I the best almost forget,
There do the gods (as I haue tride)
Their Ambrosie and Nectar hide.
The daintie pot that's in thy chin,
Makes many a heart for to fall in,
Whereas they boyle with pleasant fires,
Whose fuell is enflam'd Desires.
'Tis eminent in Beauties field,
As that which threatens all to yeeld.
T'vphold those treasures vndefac'd,
There is an yuorie pillar plac'd,
Which like to Maias sonne doth proue,
For to beare vp this world of loue:
In it some branched veines arise,
As th'azure pure would braue the skies.
I see whiles as I downward moue,
Two little globes, two worlds of loue,
Which vndiscouer'd, vndistressed,
Were neuer with no burden pressed:
Nor will for Lord acknowledge none,
To be enstal'd in Beauties throne:
As barren yet so were they bare,
O happie he that might dwell there.
And now my Muse we must make hast,
To it that's iustly cal'd the wast,
That wasts my heart with hopes and feares,
My breath with sighes, mine eyes with teares:
Yet I to it for all those harmes,
Would make a girdle of mine armes.
There is below which no man knowes,
A mountaine made of naked snowes,
Amidst the which is Loues great seale,
To which for helpe I oft appeale,
And if by it my right were past,
I should brooke beautie still at last.
But ah, my Muse will lose the Crowne,
I dare not go no further downe,
Which doth discourage me so much,
That I no other thing will touch.
No not those litle daintie feet,
Which Thetis staine, for Venus meet:
Thus wading through the depths of Beautie,
I would haue faine discharg'd my dutie:
Yet doth thy worth so passe my skill,
That I shew nothing but good will.