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? 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? 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 design'd Th' eclipse and glory of her kind? _Sir H. Wotton_ CXI _TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY_ Daughter to that good Earl, once President Of England's Council and her Treasury, Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee, And left them both, more in himself content, Till the sad breaking of that Parliament Broke him, as that dishonest victory At Chaeroneia, fatal to liberty, Kill'd with report that old man eloquent;-- Though later born than to have known the days Wherein your father flourish'd, yet by you, Madam, methinks I see him living yet; So well your words his noble virtues praise, That all both judge you to relate them true, And to possess them, honour'd Margaret. _J. Milton_ CXII _THE TRUE BEAUTY_ He that loves a rosy cheek Or a coral lip admires, Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away. But a smooth and steadfast mind, Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires:-- Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. _T. Carew_ CXIII _TO DIANEME_ Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes Which starlike sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud, that you can see All hearts your captives; yours yet free: Be you not proud of that rich hair Which wantons with the lovesick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty's gone. _R. Herrick._ CXIV Love in thy youth, fair Maid, be wise; Old Time will make thee colder, And though each morning new arise Yet we each day grow older. Thou as Heaven art fair and young, Thine eyes like twin stars shining; But ere another day be sprung All these will be declining. Then winter comes with all his fears, And all thy sweets shall borrow; Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears,-- And I too late shall sorrow! _Anon._ CXV Go, lovely Rose! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.