‘See the chariot at hand here of love, Wherein my lady rideth! Each that draws it is a swan or a dove; And well the car love guideth! As she goes all hearts do duty Unto her beauty: And enamour’d, do wish so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that love’s world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright As love’s star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead’s smoother Than words that soothe her: And from her arch’d brows, such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good of the elements’ strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touch’d it? Ha’ you mark’d but the fall of the snow Before the soil hath smutch’d it? Ha’ you felt _the wool of beaver_? Or swan’s down ever? Or have smelt o’ the bud o’ the briar? Or _the nard in the fire_? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? Oh, so white! Oh so soft! Oh so sweet is she!’ His Discourse with Cupid, which follows, is infinitely delicate and _piquant_, and without one single blemish. It is a perfect ‘nest of spicery.’ ‘Noblest Charis, you that are Both my fortune and my star! And do govern more my blood, Than the various moon the flood! Hear, 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 strain; ‘Sure,’ said he, ‘if I have brain, This here sung can be no other, By description, but my mother! So hath Homer prais’d her hair; So Anacreon drawn the air Of her face, and made to rise, Just about her sparkling eyes, Both her brows, bent like my bow. By her looks I do her know, Which you call my shafts. And see! Such my mother’s blushes be, As the bath your verse discloses In her cheeks, of milk and roses; Such as oft I wanton in. And, above her even chin, Have you plac’d the bank of kisses, Where you say, men gather blisses, Rip’ned with a breath more sweet, Than when flowers and west-winds meet. Nay, her white and polish’d neck, With the lace that doth it deck,