Her Queenly Beauty.

You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes

More by your number than your light!
You common people of the skies!
What are you, when the sun shall rise?
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 shall 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.

Her Reflected Beauty.

I saw thee weave a web with care,
Where, at thy touch, fresh roses grew,
And marvell'd they were form'd so fair,

And that thy heart such nature knew.

Alas! how idly my surprise,

Since naught so plain can be ;

Thy cheek their richest hue supplies,
And in thy breath their perfume lies,—*

Their grace, their beauty, all are drawn from

thee !

Étienne Jodelle.

Her Beauty in Repose.

One of her hands one of her cheeks lay under,
Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss,

Which, therefore, swell'd, and seem'd to part asunder,
As angry to be robb'd of so much bliss ;
The one look'd pale, and for revenge did long,
While t'other blush'd-'cause it had done the wrong.

Out of the bed the other fair hand was

On a green satin quilt, whose perfect white
Look'd like a daisie in a field of grass,

And show'd like unmelt snow unto the sight;
There lay this pretty perdue, safe to keep
The rest o' the body that lay fast asleep.

Her eyes (and therefore it was night) close laid,
Strove to imprison Beauty till the morn ;
But yet the doors were of such fine stuff made,

That it broke through, and show'd itself in scorn, Throwing a kind of light about the place,

Which turn'd to smiles still as 't came near her face.

Her beams (which some dull men call'd hair) divided,
Part with her cheeks, part with her lips did sport;
But these as rude her breath put by; still some

Wiselyer downwards sought; but falling short,
Curl'd back in rings, and seem'd to turn again
To bite the part so unkindly held them in.

Sir J. Suckling.

Respect inspired by her Beauty.

Thy simplest tress

Claims more from me than tenderness;
I would not wrong the slenderest hair
That clusters round thy forehead fair,
For all the treasures buried far

Within the caves of Istakar.

Byron.

Her Beauty compared to Roses.

Ladye! when I behold the roses sprouting,

Which, clad in damask mantles, deck the arbours ;

And then behold your lips, where sweet love harbours—
Mine eyes present me with a double doubting;
For, viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes,
Whether the roses be your lips, or your lips the roses.

J. Wilbye.

Her Beauty with Sense irresistible.

How much superior beauty awes
The coldest bosoms find;
But with resistless force it draws,
To sense and sweetness join'd.

The casket, where to outward show
The workman's art is seen,

Is doubly valued when we know

It holds a gem within.

Bickerstaff.

The shape alone let others prize,
The features of the fair;
I look for spirit in her eyes,
And meaning in her air.

A damask cheek, an ivory arm,
Shall ne'er my wishes win;
Give me an animated form,
That speaks a mind within.

A face where awful honour shines,
Where sense and sweetness move,

And angel innocence refines

The tenderness of love.

These are the soul of beauty's frame,

Without whose vital aid, Unfinish'd all her features seem,

And all her roses dead.

But ah! where both their charms unite,

How perfect is the view;
With every image of delight,
With graces ever new!

Of power to charm the greatest woe,
The wildest rage control,

Diffusing mildness o'er the brow,
And rapture through the soul.

Their power but faintly to express
All language must despair;
But go, behold Arpasia's face,

And read it perfect there!

Akenside.

With each perfection dawning on her mind,
All beauty's treasure opening on her cheek.

Jerningham.

Her Beauty's Spell.

She shall be dignified with this high honour,--
To bear my lady's train, lest the base earth
Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss ;
And of so great a favour growing proud,
Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower,
And make rough winter everlastingly.

Shakespeare.