So though you're white as swan or snow, And have the power to move A world of men to love, Yet when your lawns and silks shall flow, And that white cloud divide Into a doubtful twilight, then, Then will your hidden pride Raise greater fires in men. _Tincture_, colour, dye. _Scene_, a covering. 194. TO HIS BOOK. Like to a bride, come forth, my book, at last, With all thy richest jewels overcast; Say, if there be, 'mongst many gems here, one Deserveless of the name of paragon; Blush not at all for that, since we have set Some pearls on queens that have been counterfeit. 195. UPON SOME WOMEN. Thou who wilt not love, do this, Learn of me what woman is. Something made of thread and thrum. A mere botch of all and some. Pieces, patches, ropes of hair; Inlaid garbage everywhere. Outside silk and outside lawn; Scenes to cheat us neatly drawn. False in legs, and false in thighs; False in breast, teeth, hair, and eyes; False in head, and false enough; Only true in shreds and stuff. _Thrum_, a small thread. _All and some_, anything and everything. 196. SUPREME FORTUNE FALLS SOONEST. While leanest beasts in pastures feed, _The fattest ox the first must bleed_. 197. THE WELCOME TO SACK. So soft streams meet, so springs with gladder smiles Meet after long divorcement by the isles; When love, the child of likeness, urgeth on Their crystal natures to a union: So meet stolen kisses, when the moony nights Call forth fierce lovers to their wish'd delights; So kings and queens meet, when desire convinces All thoughts but such as aim at getting princes, As I meet thee. Soul of my life and fame! Eternal lamp of love! whose radiant flame Out-glares the heaven's Osiris,[H] and thy gleams Out-shine the splendour of his mid-day beams. Welcome, O welcome, my illustrious spouse; Welcome as are the ends unto my vows; Aye! far more welcome than the happy soil The sea-scourged merchant, after all his toil, Salutes with tears of joy, when fires betray The smoky chimneys of his Ithaca. Where hast thou been so long from my embraces, Poor pitied exile? Tell me, did thy graces Fly discontented hence, and for a time Did rather choose to bless another clime? Or went'st thou to this end, the more to move me, By thy short absence, to desire and love thee? Why frowns my sweet? Why won't my saint confer Favours on me, her fierce idolater? Why are those looks, those looks the which have been Time-past so fragrant, sickly now drawn in Like a dull twilight? Tell me, and the fault I'll expiate with sulphur, hair and salt; And, with the crystal humour of the spring, Purge hence the guilt and kill this quarrelling. Wo't thou not smile or tell me what's amiss? Have I been cold to hug thee, too remiss,