Something more than Taffata or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan. More than the spoil Of shop, or silkworm’s toil, Or a bought blush, or a set smile. A face that’s best By its own beauty drest, And can alone commend the rest. A cheek where youth And blood, with pen of truth, Write what the reader sweetly rueth. A cheek where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box his being owes. Lips where all day A lover’s kiss may play, Yet carry nothing thence away. Looks that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simple nakedness. Eyes that displace Their neighbour diamond, and out-face That sunshine by their own sweet grace. Tresses that wear Jewels, but to declare How much themselves more precious are; Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems that in their bright shades play. Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear. A well-tamed heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart. Eyes that bestow Full quivers on love’s bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe. Smiles that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chastity shall take no harm. Blushes that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within. Joys that confess, Virtue their mistress, And have no other head to dress. Fears fond and slight As the coy bride’s, when night First does the longing lover right. Tears quickly fled, And vain, as those are shed For a dying maidenhead. Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers; ’Bove all, nothing within that lowers. Days that need borrow No part of their good-morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow. Days that in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind, are day all night. Nights, sweet as they, Made short by lovers’ play, Yet long by the absence of the day. Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes, say, Welcome, friend! Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old winter’s head with flowers. Whate’er delight Can make day’s forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of night. In her whole frame, Have Nature all the name, Art and ornament the shame. Her flattery, Picture and poesy, Her counsel her own virtue be. I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish—no more. Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows; Her whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise; Her that dares he What these lines wish to see; I seek no further, it is She. ’Tis She, and here, Lo! I unclothe and clear My wishes’ cloudy character. May she enjoy it Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it!