 | Poems (1872) |  |
XVIII. THE SHEEPHEARDS COMMENDATION OF HIS NIMPH.
What Sheepheard can expresse
The fauour of her face?
To whom, in this distresse,
I doo appeale for grace.
A thousand Cupids flye
About her gentle eye.
The fauour of her face?
To whom, in this distresse,
I doo appeale for grace.
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About her gentle eye.
From which each throwes a dart,
That kindleth soft sweet fire:
Within my sighing hart,
Possessèd by desire:
No sweeter life I trie
Then in her loue to die.
That kindleth soft sweet fire:
Within my sighing hart,
Possessèd by desire:
No sweeter life I trie
Then in her loue to die.
The Lilly in the field,
That glories in his white:
For purenes now must yeeld
And render vp his right.
Heauen pictur'd in her face,
Dooth promise ioy and grace.
That glories in his white:
For purenes now must yeeld
And render vp his right.
Heauen pictur'd in her face,
Dooth promise ioy and grace.
Faire Cinthiae's siluer light,
That beates on running streams:
Compares not with her white.
Whose haires are all Sunne-beames.
So bright my Nimph dooth shine.
As day vnto my eyne.
That beates on running streams:
Compares not with her white.
Whose haires are all Sunne-beames.
So bright my Nimph dooth shine.
As day vnto my eyne.
With this there is a red
Exceedes the Damaske-Rose:
Which in her cheekes is spred;
Whence euery fauour growes.
In Skie there is no starre,
But she surmounts it farre.
Exceedes the Damaske-Rose:
Which in her cheekes is spred;
Whence euery fauour growes.
In Skie there is no starre,
But she surmounts it farre.
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When Phœbus from the bed
Of Thetis dooth arise:
The morning blushing red,
In faire Carnation wise:
He shewes in my Nimph's face,
As Queene of euery grace.
Of Thetis dooth arise:
The morning blushing red,
In faire Carnation wise:
He shewes in my Nimph's face,
As Queene of euery grace.
This pleasant Lilly white,
This taint of roseate red:
This Cinthiae's siluer light,
This sweete faire Dea spred,
These Sun-beames in mine eye,
These beauties make me die.
This taint of roseate red:
This Cinthiae's siluer light,
This sweete faire Dea spred,
These Sun-beames in mine eye,
These beauties make me die.
| Poems (1872) | |