The Complete Works of Sir Philip Sidney :: :: University of Virginia Library

What Toungue can her perfections tell?
In whose eche parte all penn̄s may dwell.
Her hayre fyne Laces made of golde,
In Curled knottes Mans thoughte to holde,
But that her forehead sayes in mee,
A whiter Bewty yow may see,
Whiter in deede, more white then snowe,
Whiche on Colde wynters face dothe growe.

That dothe present those prety Browes,
Whose equall Lynes theyre Angles bowes,
Lyke to the Moone when after Change,
Her Horned face in Heaven dothe Range,
And Arches bee to those fayre Lyddes,
Whose wincke eche Bolde attempt forbiddes.

As for the Starres, whose spheares contayne
The Matcheles prayse even prayse dothe stayne,
No Lampe whose Lighte by arte ys gott,
No Sunne whiche shynes and seeth nott,
Can Liken them withoute all pere,
Save one asmuche as other Clere.

Whiche onely thus unhappy bee,
Bycause them selves they can not see,
Her Cheekes with kyndly Clarett spredd
Like Christall, underlayde with Redd,
Her Nose and Chynn̄ suche Ivory weares,
No Elephant so perfect beares.

But who those Ruddy Lippes can mysse,
Whiche Blessed still them selves do kisse,
Rubyes, Cheryes, and Roses newe,
In worthe, in Taste, in perfect Hewe,
Whiche never parte but that they showe,
Of precyous partes the Duble Rowe,
The second sweetely fenced warde,
Her hevenly dewed Toungue to garde.

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Whence never worde in vayne dothe flowe,
Fayre under these dothe stately growe,
The handle of this pleasaunt worcke,
The Neck in whiche strange graces lurcke,
Suche bee I thincke the sumptuous Towers,
Whiche skill dothe make in Princely Bowers.

So true a Taste invites the Eye,
A litle Downeward to espye,
The Lovely Clusters of her Brestes,
Of Venus Babb the wanton Nestes,
Lyke Pummells Rounde of Marble Clere,
Where Azured vaynes well mixte appeare,

With Lycoras stalkes of Porphiry,
Betwixt these Twoo a way dothe lye,
A way, more worthy Beutyes fame,
Then that wch beares the Milcken Name,
These Leades unto the Joyous feelde,
Whiche onely still dothe Lillyes yeelde.
But Lillyes suche, whose Native smell
The Indyan Odoures doo excell.

Waste yt ys callde, for, yt dothe waste,
Menns Lyves untill yt bee embraste,
There may one see, and yet not see,
Her tender Ribbes well armed bee,
Like Whitest Snowe, in silver Brooke,
Fayre, thorow fayre strykes of heedefull Looke.

In these Delightes the Wandering thoughte,
Mighte of eche syde a stray bee broughte,
But, that her Navell dothe unite,
The Curyous Circle buysy sighte,
A Daynty sealle of virgyn waxe,
Where no thing but Impressyon lackes.

The Belly theyre glad sighte dothe fyll,
Justly entituled Cupids Hill.
A Hill moste fitt for suche a Master,
A spottles Myne of Alablaster;

225

Lyke Alablaster fayre and slyke,
But softe and supple, Sattyn like,
For, suche an use the worlde hathe gotten,
The best thinges still must bee forgotten.

Yet never shall my Songe, omitt,
Those thighes for Ovids songe more fitt,
Whiche flancked with twoo sugred flanckes,
Lifte up theyre stately swelling Banckes,
That Albyon Cleeves in whitenes passe,
With hanches smoothe as Looking glasse.

But, bowe all knees, now of her knees,
My toungue dothe tell what fancy sees,
The knottes of Joye, the Gynnes of Love,
Whose motyon makes all graces moove,
Whose boughte enchaynde dothe yeeld suche sighte,
Like Cunning paynters shadowyng white,
The gartering place dothe Chyldelike signe,
Shewes easy Printe in Mettall fyne.

But, there ageane, the flesh dothe ryse,
In her brave Calves, lyke morning skyes,
That Limittes have in smallest smalle,
Whose eeven descent makes equall falle,
There ofte steales oute that Round cleane foote,
This Noble Cedars precyous Roote.

In shewe and sente pale vyolettes
Whose stepp on earthe all Beuty settes,
But, Back unto her Back my Muse,
Where Ledas Swann his fethers [mewes],
Alonge whose Ridge suche Bones are mett
Lyke Comfettes Rounde in Marchepane sett.

Her shoulders bee like twoo white Doves,
Pearching uppon square Royall Rooves
Whose gentle rayes suche Luster fynde,
Lyke thynnest Lawne with Tynsell lynde,
And thence those Armes deryved are,
The Phenix wynges bee not so Rare.

226

For faulteles lengthe, and stayneles Hewe,
Ah, woe ys mee, my woes Renewe,
Nowe Course dothe Leade mee to her hande,
Of my first Love, the fatall Band,
Where whitenes dothe for ever sitt,
Nature her self enameld yt.

For, there with straunge Compact dothe lye,
Warme snowe, moyste perle, softe Ivory,
There falle those Saphyre Coloured Brookes,
Whiche Conduyt like with Curyous Crookes,
Sweete Ilandes makes in that sweete Lande,
As for the fyngers of the Hande,
The Bloody shaftes of Cupids warr,
With Amatistes they headed are.

Thus hathe eche parte his Bewtyes parte,
But, howe the Graces doo Imparte,
To all her Lymmes especiall grace,
Becomming every tyme and place
Whiche dothe even Buty butify,
And moste bewitche the wretched ey.

Howe all this ys but a fayre Inne,
Of fayrer Guest whiche dwelles therein,
Of whose hye prayse, and praysefull Blisse
Goodnes the penn, Heaven Paper ys,
The Incke Immortall fame dothe lende,
As I begān, so must I ende,
No toungue can her perfections tell,
In whose eche parte all pennes may dwell.

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Here endes the Thirde Booke or Acte.