The Phanseys of William Cavendish Marquis of Newcastle addressed to Margaret Lucas and her Letters in reply: Edited by Douglas Grant |
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| 33. | 33 The Heaven's Moulde |
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 | The Phanseys of William Cavendish Marquis of Newcastle |  |
44
33
The Heaven's Moulde
So streight, so slender, and so tall,
But that's not all:
A face out of the Comon Road,
With smiles so stroad,
To grace that feature and that forme
Without a storme.
You, Heaven's mould, sent downe so fresh and new;
None can be handsom that's not thought like you.
But that's not all:
A face out of the Comon Road,
With smiles so stroad,
To grace that feature and that forme
Without a storme.
You, Heaven's mould, sent downe so fresh and new;
None can be handsom that's not thought like you.
So Bewtifull you are, so fayre,
Transpayrent Ayre
Doth sully and doth stayne your skinne;
It is so thinne,
The Gentlest blushe no where can hide,
So soone tis spide;
And your Each curled hayre those locks doth grace,
Like pensil'd shadows for your lovely face.
Transpayrent Ayre
Doth sully and doth stayne your skinne;
It is so thinne,
The Gentlest blushe no where can hide,
So soone tis spide;
And your Each curled hayre those locks doth grace,
Like pensil'd shadows for your lovely face.
You doe Excell, Nature thought fitt,
So too in witt,
And Judgment too; wher you doe come
Wee'r all struck dumme,
Amas'd with your discourse; when heare
Ravisht Each Eare:
So Orfious' Harpe doth stringe your tongue of love,
And when you Play makes trees and Rocks to move.
So too in witt,
And Judgment too; wher you doe come
Wee'r all struck dumme,
Amas'd with your discourse; when heare
Ravisht Each Eare:
So Orfious' Harpe doth stringe your tongue of love,
And when you Play makes trees and Rocks to move.
| The Phanseys of William Cavendish Marquis of Newcastle | |