Methought his royal person did foretell A kingly stateliness, from all pride clear; His look majestic seemèd to compel All men to love him, rather than to fear. And yet though he were every good man’s joy, 5 And the alonely comfort of his own, His very name with terror did annoy His foreign foes so far as he was known. Hell drooped for fear; the Turkey moon looked pale; Spain trembled; and the most tempestuous sea, (Where Behemoth, the Babylonish whale, 10 Keeps all his bloody and imperious plea) Was swoln with rage, for fear he’d stop the tide Of her o’er-daring and insulting pride. _George Wither._ XCIV _ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA._ You meaner beauties of the night, Which poorly satisfy our eyes, More by your number than your light,-- You common people of the skies, What are you, when the Moon shall rise? 5 You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own,-- What are you, when the Rose is blown? 10 You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth dame Nature’s lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents,--what’s your praise, When Philomel her voice doth raise? 15 So when my Mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not designed The eclipse and glory of her kind? 20 _Sir Henry Wotton._ XCV _LORD STRAFFORD’S MEDITATIONS IN THE TOWER._ Go, empty joys, With all your noise, And leave me here alone, In sweet sad silence to bemoan The fickle worldly height, 5 Whose danger none can see aright, Whilst your false splendours dim his sight. Go, and ensnare With your trim ware Some other easy wight, 10 And cheat him with your flattering light; Rain on his head a shower Of honours, favour, wealth, and power; Then snatch it from him in an hour. Fill his big mind 15 With gallant wind Of insolent applause; Let him not fear all-curbing laws, Nor king, nor people’s frown; But dream of something like a crown, 20 Then, climbing towards it, tumble down. Let him appear In his bright sphere Like Cynthia in her pride, With starlike troops on every side; 25 For number and clear light Such as may soon o’erwhelm him quite, And blend them both in one dead night.