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

What toong can her perfections tell
In whose each part all pens may dwell?
Her haire fine threeds of finest gould
In curled knots mans thought to hold:
But that her fore-head sayes in me
A whiter beautie you may see.
Whiter indeed; more white then snow,
Which on cold winters face doth grow.

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That doth present those even browes,
Whose equall line their angles bowes,
Like to the Moone when after chaunge
Her horned head abroad doth raunge:
And arches be to heavenly lids,
Whose winke ech bold attempt forbids.
For the blacke starres those Spheares containe,
The matchlesse paire, even praise doth staine.
No lampe, whose light by Art is got,
No Sunne, which shines, and seeth not,
Can liken them without all peere,
Save one as much as other cleere:
Which onely thus unhappie be,
Because themselves they cannot see.

Her cheekes with kindly claret spred.
Aurora like new out of bed,
Or like the fresh Queene-apples side,
Blushing at sight of Phœbus pride.

Her nose, her chinne pure ivorie weares:
No purer then the pretie eares.
So that therein appeares some blood,
Like wine and milke that mingled stood
In whose Incirclets if ye gaze,
Your eyes may tread a Lovers maze.
But with such turnes the voice to stray,
No talke untaught can finde the way.
The tippe no jewell needes to weare:
The tippe is jewell of the eare.

But who those ruddie lippes can misse?
Which blessed still themselves doo kisse.
Rubies, Cherries, and Roses new,
In worth, in taste, in perfitte hewe:
Which never part but that they showe
Of pretious pearle the double rowe,
The second sweetly-fenced warde,
Her heav'nly-dewed tongue to garde.
Whence never word in vaine did flowe.

Faire under these doth stately growe,
The handle of this pretious worke,
The neck, in which strange graces lurke.

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Such be I thinke the sumptuous towers
Which skill dooth make in Princes bowers.
So good a say invites the eye,
A little downward to espie,
The livelie clusters of her brests,
Of Venus babe the wanton nests:
Like pomels round of Marble cleere:
Where azurde veines well mixt appeere.
With dearest tops of porphyrie.

Betwixt these two a way doth lie,
A way more worthie beauties fame,
Then that which beares the Milkie name.
This leades into the joyous field,
Which onely still doth Lillies yeeld:
But Lillies such whose native smell
The Indian odours doth excell.
Waste it is calde, for it doth waste
Mens lives, untill it be imbraste.

There may one see, and yet not see
Her ribbes in white all armed be.
More white then Neptunes fomie face,
When strugling rocks he would imbrace.

In those delights the wandring thought
Might of each side astray be brought,
But that her navel doth unite,
In curious circle, busie sight:
A daintie seale of virgin-waxe,
Where nothing but impression lackes.

Her bellie then gladde sight doth fill,
Justly entitled Cupids hill.
A hill most fitte for such a master,
A spotlesse mine of Alablaster.
Like Alablaster faire and sleeke,
But soft and supple satten like.
In that sweete seate the Boy doth sport:
Loath, I must leave his chiefe resort.
“For such a use the world hath gotten,
“The best things still must be forgotten.

Yet never shall my song omitte
Thighes, for Ovids song more fitte;

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Which flanked with two sugred flankes,
Lift up their stately swelling bankes;
That Albion clives in whitenes passe:
With hanches smooth as looking glasse.

But bow all knees, now of her knees
My tongue doth tell what fancie sees.
The knottes of joy, the gemmes of love,
Whose motion makes all graces move.
Whose bought incav'd doth yeeld such sight,
Like cunning Painter shadowing white.
The gartring place with child-like signe,
Shewes easie print in mettall fine.
But then againe the flesh doth rise
In her brave calves, like christall skies.
Whose Atlas is a smallest small,
More white then whitest bone of all.

Thereout steales out that round cleane foote
This noble Cedars pretious roote:
In shewe and sent pale violets,
Whose steppe on earth all beautie sets.

But back unto her back, my Muse,
Where Ledas swanne his feathers mewes,
Along whose ridge such bones are met,
Like comfits round in marchpane set.

Her shoulders be like two white Doves,
Pearching within square royall rooves,
Which leaded are with silver skinne,
Passing the hate-sport Ermelin.
And thence those armes derived are;
The Phœnix wings are not so rare
For faultlesse length, and stainelesse hewe,

Ah woe is me, my woes renewe;
Now course doth leade me to her hand,
Of my first love the fatall band.
Where whitenes dooth for ever sitte:
Nature her selfe enameld it.
For there with strange compact dooth lie
Warme snow, moyst pearle, softe ivorie.
There fall those Saphir-coloured brookes,
Which conduit-like with curious crookes,

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Sweete Ilands make in that sweete land.
As for the fingers of the hand,
The bloudy shaftes of Cupids warre,
With amatists they headed are.

Thus hath each part his beauties part,
But how the Graces doo impart
To all her limmes a spetiall grace,
Becomming every time and place.
Which doth even beautie beautifie,
And most bewitch the wretched eye.
How all this is but a faire Inne
Of fairer guestes, which dwell within.
Of whose high praise, and praisefull blisse,
Goodnes the penne, heaven paper is.
The inke immortall fame dooth lende:
As I began, so must I ende.
No tongue can her perfections tell,
In whose each part all tongues may dwell.