But he hath eyes so round and bright,
As make away my doubt,
Where Love may all his torches
Though hate had put them out.
But then, t increase my fears,
What Nymph soeer, his voice but
Will be my rival, though she have but ears.
Ill tell no more, and yet I love,
And he loves me. Yet no
One unbecoming thought doth move
either heart, I know;
But so exempt from blame
As it would be to each a fame,
If love, or fear, would let
me tell his name.
SEE the Chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my Lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan
or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;
do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
thorough seas, whither she would ride.
Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Loves world compriseth!
Do but look on her
hair, it is bright
As Loves star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her foreheads smoother
Than words that soothe
And from her archd brows such a grace
Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the
All the gain, all the good, of the elements strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touchd it?
Have you markd but
the fall of the snow
Before the soil hath smutchd it?
Have you felt the wool of beaver,
Or swans down
Or have smelt o the bud o the brier,
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise,
And yours of whom I sing be such
As not the world
can praise too much,
Yet tis your Virtue now I raise.
A virtue, like allay1 so gone
Throughout your form as, though that move
And draw and conquer
all mens love,
This subjects you to love of one.
Wherein you triumph yetbecause
Tis of your flesh, and that you use
The noblest freedom,
not to choose
Against or faith or honours laws.
But who should less expect from you?
In whom alone Love lives again:
By whom he is restored
And kept and bred and brought up true.
His falling temples you have reard,
The witherd garlands taen away;
His altars kept from that
That envy wishd, and nature feard:
And on them burn so chaste a flame,
With so much loyaltys expense,
As Love to acquit such
Is gone himself into your name.
And you are hethe deity
To whom all lovers are designd
That would their better objects
Among which faithful troop am I
Who as an offring at your shrine
Have sung this hymn, and here entreat
One spark of your
To light upon a love of mine:
Which if it kindle not, but scant
Appear, and that to shortest view;
Yet give me leave to adore
What I in her am grieved to want!
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