And again in the Fairey Queen:-- What equal torment to the grief of mind. And pining anguish, hid in gentle heart, That inly foods itself with thoughts unkind, And nourisheth its own consuming smart; And will to none its malady impart! The effects produced in a noble and gentle spirit, by virtuous love for an exalted object, are not less elegantly described in another stanza of the Hymn to Love; and must have been read with rapture in that chivalrous age. The last line is particularly beautiful. Then forth he casts in his unquiet thought, What he may do, her favour to obtain; What brave exploit, what peril hardly wrought, What puissant conquest, what adventurous pain, May please her best, and grace unto him gain; He dreads no danger, nor misfortune fears,-- His faith, his fortune, in his breast he bears! And in what a fine spirit of poetry, as well as feeling, is that description of the power of true beauty, which forms part of his second Hymn! It is indeed imitated from the refined Platonics of the Italian school, which then prevailed in the court, the camp, the grove, and is a little diffuse in style, a little redundant; but how rich in poetry, and in the most luxuriant and graceful imagery! How vainly then do idle wits invent, That beauty is nought else but mixture made Of colours fair, and goodly temperament Of pure complexions, that shall quickly fade And pass away, like to a summer's shade; Or that it is but comely composition Of parts well measured, with meet disposition! Hath white and red in it such wondrous power, That it can pierce through th' eyes into the heart, And therein stir such rage and restless stowre, As nought but death can stint his dolor's smart? Or can proportion of the outward part Move such affection in the inward mind, That it can rob both sense, and reason blind? Why do not then the blossoms of the field, Which are array'd with much more orient hue, And to the sense most dainty odours yield, Work like impression in the looker's view? Or why do not fair pictures like power show, In which oft-times we Nature see of Art Excell'd, in perfect limming every part? But ah! believe me, there is more than so, That works such wonders in the minds of men, I, that have often prov'd, too well it know. And who so list the like essaies to ken, Shall find by trial, and confess it then, That beauty is not, as fond men misdeem, An outward show of things that only seem. For that same goodly hue of white and red, With which the cheeks are sprinkled, shall decay, And those sweet rosy leaves, so fairly spread Upon the lips, shall fade and fall away, To that they were, even to corrupted clay:-- That golden wire, those sparkling stars so bright Shall turn to dust, and lose their goodly light.