Draw first a cloud, all save her neck, And, out of that, make day to break; Till like her face it do appear, And men may think all light rose there. Then let the beams of that disperse The cloud, and show the universe; But at such distance, as the eye May rather yet adore, than spy. TO PENSHURST. (FROM 'THE FOREST') Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show Of touch or marble; nor canst boast a row Of polish'd pillars, or a roof of gold: Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told; Or stair, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile, And these grudged at, are reverenced the while. Thou joy'st in better marks of soil and air, Of wood, of water; therein thou art fair. Thou hast thy walks for health as well as sport; Thy mount to which the dryads do resort, Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made Beneath the broad beech, and the chestnut shade; That taller tree which of a nut was set At his great birth where all the Muses met. There, in the writhed bark, are cut the names Of many a Sylvan token with his flames. And thence the ruddy Satyrs oft provoke The lighter Fauns to reach thy Ladies' Oak. Thy copse, too, named of Gamage, thou hast here That never fails, to serve thee, season'd deer, When thou would'st feast or exercise thy friends. The lower land that to the river bends, Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed: The middle ground thy mares and horses breed. Each bank doth yield thee conies, and the tops Fertile of wood. Ashore, and Sidney's copse, To crown thy open table doth provide The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side: The painted partridge lies in every field, And, for thy mess, is willing to be kill'd. And if the high-swollen Medway fail thy dish, Thou hast thy ponds that pay thee tribute fish, Fat, aged carps that run into thy net, And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat, As both the second draught or cast to stay, Officiously, at first, themselves betray. Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land, Before the fisher, or into his hand. Thou hast thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours. The early cherry with the later plum, Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come: The blushing apricot and woolly peach Hang on thy walls that every child may reach. And though thy walls be of the country stone, They're rear'd with no man's ruin, no man's groan; There's none that dwell about them wish them down; But all come in, the farmer and the clown, And no one empty-handed, to salute Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit. Some bring a capon, some a rural cake, Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make The better cheeses, bring them, or else send By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend This way to husbands; and whose baskets bear An emblem of themselves, in plum or pear. But what can this (more than express their love) Add to thy free provision, far above The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow