As she goes, all hearts doe duty
Unto her beauty;
And enamour'd, doe wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were, to run by her side,
Through Swords, through Seas, whether she would ride.
Doe but looke on her eyes, they doe light
All that Loves world compriseth!
Doe but looke on her Haire, it is bright
As Loves starre when it riseth!
Doe but marke her forhead's smoother
Then words that sooth her!
And from her arched browes, such a grace
Sheds it selfe through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the Gaine, all the Good, of the Elements strife.
Have you seene but a bright Lillie growe,
Before rude hands have touch'd it?
Ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the Snow
Before the soyle hath smutch'd it?
Ha' you felt the wooll of Bever?
Or Swans Downe ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the Brier?
Or the Nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the Bee?
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!
His discourse with Cupid.
NOBLEST Charis, you that are
Both my fortune, and my Starre!
And doe governe more my blood,
Then the various Moone the flood!
Heare, what late Discourse of you,
Love, and I have had; and true.
'Mongst my Muses finding me,
Where he chanc't your name to see
Set, and to this softer straine;
Sure, said he, if I have Braine,
This here sung, can be no other
By description, but my Mother!
So hath Homer prais'd her haire;
So, Anacreon drawne the Ayre
Of her face, and made to rise
Just about her sparkling eyes,
Both her Browes, bent like my
By her lookes I doe her know,
Which you call my Shafts. And see!
Such my Mothers blushes be,
As the Bath your verse discloses
In her cheekes, of Milke, and Roses;
Such as oft I wanton in?
And, above her even chin,
Have you plac'd the banke of kisses,
Where you say, men gather blisses,
Rip'ned with a breath more sweet,
Then when flowers, and West-winds meet.
Nay, her white and polish'd neck,
With the Lace that doth it deck,
Is my Mothers! Hearts of slaine
Lovers, made into a Chaine!
And betweene each rising breast,
Lyes the Valley, cal'd my nest,
Where I sit and proyne my wings
After flight; and put new stings
To my shafts! Her very Name,
With my Mothers is the same.
I confesse all, I replide,
And the Glasse hangs by her side,
And the Girdle 'bout her waste,
All is Venus: save unchaste.
But alas, thou seest the least
Of her good, who is the best
Of her Sex; But could'st thou Love,
Call to mind the formes, that strove
For the Apple, and those three
Make in one, the same were shee.
For this Beauty yet doth hide,
Something more then thou hast spi'd
Outward Grace weake love beguiles:
Shee is Venus, when she smiles,
But shee's Juno, when she walkes,
And Minerva, when she talkes.
Clayming a second kisse by Desert. CHARIS guesse, and doe not misse, Since I drew a Morning kisse From your lips, and suck'd an ayre Thence, as sweet, as you are faire. What my Muse and I have done : Whether we have lost, or wonne, If by us, the oddes were laid, That the Bride (allow'd a Maid) Look'd not halfe so fresh, and faire, With th' advantage of her haire, And her Jewels, to the view Of th' Assembly, as did you! Or, that did you sit, or walke, You were more the eye, and talke Of the Court, to day, then all Else that glister'd in White-hall; So, as those that had your sight, Wisht the Bride were chang'd to night,
And did thinke, such Rites were due
To no other Grace but you!
Or, if you did move to night
In the Daunces, with what spight
Of your Peeres, you were beheld,
That at every motion sweld
So to see a Lady tread,
As might all the Graces lead,
And was worthy (being so seene)
To be envi'd of the Queene.
Or if you would yet have stay'd,
Whether any would up-braid
To himselfe his losse of Time:
Or have charg'd his sight of Crime,
To have left all sight for you:
Guesse of these, which is the true;
And, if such a verse as this,
May not claime another kisse.
Begging another, on colour of mending
the former.
FOR Loves-sake, kisse me once againe,
I long, and should not beg in vaine,
Here's none to spie, or see;
Why doe you doubt, or stay?
I'le taste as lightly as the Bee,
That doth but touch his flower, and flies away. Once more, and (faith) I will be gone
Can he that loves, aske lesse then one?
Nay, you may erre in this,
And all your bountie wrong:
This could be call'd but halfe a kisse.
What w' are but once to doe, we should doe long,
I will but mend the last, and tell
Where, how it would have relish'd well;
Joyne lip to lip, and try:
Each suck others breath.
And whilst our tongues perplexed lie, Let who will thinke us dead, or wish our death.
Urging her of a promise.
CHARIS one day in discourse
Had of Love, and of his force,
Lightly promis'd, she would tell
What a man she could love well:
And that promise set on fire
All that heard her, with desire.
With the rest, I long expected,
When the worke would be effected:
But we find that cold delay,
And excuse spun every day,
As, untill she tell her one,
We all feare, she loveth none.
Therefore, Charis, you must do 't,
For I will so urge you to 't
You shall neither eat, nor sleepe,
No, nor forth your window peepe,
With your emissarie eye,
To fetch in the Formes goe by:
And pronounce, which band or lace,
Better fits him, then his face;
Nay I will not let you sit
'Fore your Idoll Glasse a whit,
To
say over every purle
There; or to reforme a curle;
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