The Poetical Works of William Drummond of Hawthornden With "A Cypresse Grove": Edited by L. E. Kastner |
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 | The Poetical Works of William Drummond of Hawthornden |  |
[lxxvii] Evrymedons Praise of Mira.
Gemme
of the Mountaines, Glorie of our Plaines,
Rare Miracle of Nature, and of Loue,
Sweet Atlas, who all Beauties Heauens sustaines,
No, Beauties Heauen, where all her Wonders moue,
The Sunne from East to West who all doth see,
On this low Globe sees nothing like to thee.
Rare Miracle of Nature, and of Loue,
Sweet Atlas, who all Beauties Heauens sustaines,
No, Beauties Heauen, where all her Wonders moue,
The Sunne from East to West who all doth see,
On this low Globe sees nothing like to thee.
133
One Phœnix only liu'd ere thou wast borne,
And Earth but did one Queene of Loue admire,
Three Graces only did the World adorne,
But thrise three Muses sung to Phœbus Lyre,
Two Phœnixes bee now, Loues Queenes are two,
Foure Graces, Muses ten, all made by you.
And Earth but did one Queene of Loue admire,
Three Graces only did the World adorne,
But thrise three Muses sung to Phœbus Lyre,
Two Phœnixes bee now, Loues Queenes are two,
Foure Graces, Muses ten, all made by you.
For those Perfections which the bounteous Heauen
To diuerse Worlds in diuerse Times assign'd,
With thousands more, to thee at once were giuen,
Thy Body faire, more faire they made thy Mind:
And that thy like no Age should more behold,
When thou wast fram'd they after brake the Mold.
To diuerse Worlds in diuerse Times assign'd,
With thousands more, to thee at once were giuen,
Thy Body faire, more faire they made thy Mind:
And that thy like no Age should more behold,
When thou wast fram'd they after brake the Mold.
Sweet are the Blushes, on thy Face which shine,
Sweet are the Flames, which sparkle from thine Eyes,
Sweet are his Torments, who for thee doth pine,
Most sweet his Death, for thee who sweetly dies,
For if hee die, hee dies not by Annoy,
But too much Sweetnesse and aboundant Ioy.
Sweet are the Flames, which sparkle from thine Eyes,
Sweet are his Torments, who for thee doth pine,
Most sweet his Death, for thee who sweetly dies,
For if hee die, hee dies not by Annoy,
But too much Sweetnesse and aboundant Ioy.
What are my slender Layes to show thy Worth?
How can base Words a thing so high make knowne?
So wooden Globes bright Starres to vs set forth;
So in a Christall is Sunnes Beautie showne:
More of thy Praises if my Muse should write,
More Loue and Pittie, must the same indite?
How can base Words a thing so high make knowne?
So wooden Globes bright Starres to vs set forth;
So in a Christall is Sunnes Beautie showne:
More of thy Praises if my Muse should write,
More Loue and Pittie, must the same indite?
| The Poetical Works of William Drummond of Hawthornden | |