A gorgious Gallery, of gallant Inuentions Garnished and decked with diuers dayntie deuises, right delicate and delightfull, to recreate eche modest minde withall. First framed and fashioned in sundrie formes, by diuers worthy workemen of late dayes: and now, ioyned together and builded up: By T. P. [i.e. Thomas Procter] |
 |
In the prayse of the rare beauty, and manifolde
vertues of Mistres D. as followeth.
|
 |
|
 | A gorgious Gallery, of gallant Inuentions |  |
In the prayse of the rare beauty, and manifolde vertues of Mistres D. as followeth.
If Chawcer yet did lyue, whose English tongue did passe,Who sucked dry Pernassus spring, and raste the Iuice there was:
If Surrey had not scalde, the height of Ioue his Throne,
Unto whose head a pillow softe, became Mount Helycon:
They with their Muses could, not haue pronounst the fame,
Of D. faire Dame, lo, a flaming stock, the cheefe of natures frame.
They would but haue eclipsed, her beauties golden blast,
Nor Ouid yet of Poets Prince, whose wits all others past.
Olde Nestor with his tongue, and flowing dew so sweete,
Would rather haue berefte her right, then pend her praises meete
In Helens heauenly face, whose grace the Greekes bought deare,
For whose defence prowd Troy did fal, such forme did not appeare.
In Hectors sister loe: who Pirhus Father rapte,
Did not abound sutch beauty bright, as now to D, hath hapt:
For D, doth passe as far, Dame Venus with her prise,
As Venus did the other two, by doome of Paris wise.
If shee had present been, within the walles of Ide,
They would not had such discord then, nor Paris iudgd that side.
In minde all voyd of doubt, they straight agreed would,
That D, should of good right, the Aple haue of Golde.
Whom as I must beleeue, that nature did create,
To rob the hartes of noble Kings, and courage stoute to mate:
Her forhead seemely spaste, wherin doo shine her eyes,
No whit vnlike to starres by night, or beame when Phebus ryse.
Her haire that shines like golde, her shoulders couer whight.
To which no snow on Mountayne highe, may be compared right:
Her mouth well compast small, in smylings vtters forth
A treasure riche of Orient Pearle, therto no Golde more worth,
Whom loue embraced with the shape, that hee so finely made:
Yet this I dare presume, one thought of her may draw,
A harte of Iron, and it subdue, vnto blinde Cupids law.
I sorrow to recite, the bitter teares that flow:
Within the eyes of other Dames, that beauty know.
I weepe to wayle in minde, the burning slights that flame:
In troubled hartes of Natures case in spreading of her fame,
They all doo curse themselues, of Nature makes complaynt,
That shee on them had smal regard, that did her thus depaynt.
Of her doth nobles spring, and sutors sue for grace,
And Fountaines eke of sugred speech, where voice can take no place,
Here Pallas should haue lost her prayse, for wisdome great,
Who gendred was of Ioue his braines, wher wisdom toke his seat.
Here wise Vlisses wyfe, whose chastnesse brued her fame:
Should matched bee, ye mated eke, in ventring of the same.
Prowde Tarquin with his force, which Lucresse did defile:
Could not haue spoyled faire D. so, with neither sound nor gyle.
This Dame I thinke bee such, that heauen can vndermine,
And lifte the earth vnto the skyes, eche stone a star to shine.
If passed time (alas) might now returne agayne,
And all the wittes that euer was, would herein take the payne:
They could not at the ful, no due giftes expresse,
A wight vnfit to bee in earth, in heauen no such goddesse.
Whose name shall floorish still, though Atropos with spight:
In running from her deuelish Den, bereaue vs of this light,
Though Thesiphon do cut, her time of life a way:
Her cankred Swoord cannot assayle, her fame for to decay.
For wee in these our dayes, our selues may better quight:
To geue to her the cheefest prayse, then Paris which did right.
Lesse hatred cannot want, though power for to reuenge:
Our stately house as they did Troy, their force doth faile to senge.
Their might if it were like, these verses wee should rew,
With no lesse payne then Ouid did, whose greefe by Muses grew.
FINIS.
| A gorgious Gallery, of gallant Inuentions | |