Hide, oh hide those lovely Browes, _Cupid_ takes them for his bowes, And from thence with winged dart He lies pelting at my heart, Nay, unheard-of wounds doth give, Wounded in the heart I live; From their colour I descry, Loves bowes are made of Ebony; Or their Sable seemes to say They mourn for those their glances slay; Or their blacknesse doth arise From the Sun-beams of your eyes, Where _Apollo_ seemes to sit, As he’s God of Day and Wit; Your piercing Rayes, so bright, and cleare, Shewes his beamy Chariots there. Then the black upon your brow, Sayest wisdomes sable hue, [? sagest] Tells to every obvious eye, There’s his other Deity. This too shewes him deeply wise, To dwell there he left the skies; So pure a black could _Phœbus_ burn, He himself would _Negro_ turn, And for such a dresse would slight His gorgeous attire of light; Eclipses he would count a blisse, Were there such a black as this: Were Night’s dusky mantle made Of so glorious a shade, The ruffling day she would out-vie In costly dresse, and gallantry: Were Hell’s darknesse such a black, For it the Saints would Heaven forsake; So pure a black, that white from hence Loses its name of innocence; And the most spotlesse Ivory is A very stain and blot to this: So pure a black, that hence I guesse, Black first became a holy dresse. The Gods foreseeing this, did make Their Priests array themselves in Black. _To my Lady of ~Carnarvon~, January 1._