The Poetry of George Wither :: :: University of Virginia Library

Hail, fair beauties, and again,
Hail to all your goodly train.
What I promised yesterday,
If it please you, hear ye may:
For now once begun have I,
Sing I will, though none were by.
And though freely on I run,
Yet confused paths to shun,
First that part shall be disclosed,
That's of elements composed.
There the two unequal pair,
Water, fire, earth and air,
Each one suiting a complexion,
Have so cunning a commixtion,
As they, in proportion sweet,
With the rarest temper meet.
Either inasmuch as needeth,

So as neither ought exceedeth.
This pure substance is the same,
Which the body we do name.
Were that of immortal stuff,
'Tis refin'd and pure enough
To be call'd a soul; for sure,
Many souls are not so pure.
I that with a serious look
Note of this rare model took,
Find that nature in their places
So well couched all the graces,
As the curious't eyes that be
Can nor blot nor blemish see.

Like a pine it groweth straight,
Reaching an approved height:
And hath all the choice perfections,
That inflame the best affections.
In the motion of each part,
Nature seems to strive with Art,
Which her gestures most shall bless
With the gifts of pleasingness.

When she sits, methinks I see
How all virtues fixed be
In a frame, whose constant mould
Will the same unchanged hold.
If you note her when she moves,
Cytherea drawn with doves
May come learn such winning motions
As will gain to love's devotions
More than all her painted wiles,
Such as tears, or sighs, or smiles.

Some, whose bodies want true graces,
Have sweet features in their faces;
Others, that do miss them there,
Lovely are some other where;
And to our desires do fit,
In behaviour, or in wit;
Or some inward worth appearing
To the soul, the soul endearing:
But in her your eye may find
All that's good in womankind.
What in others we prefer,
Are but sundry parts of her;
Who most perfect doth present
What might one and all content.
Yea, he that in love still ranges,
And each day, or hourly changes,
Had he judgment but to know
What perfection in her grow,
There would find the spring of store,
Swear a faith, and change no more.

Neither in the total frame
Is she only void of blame;
But each part survey'd asunder
Might beget both love and wonder.
If you dare to look so high,
Or behold such majesty,
Lift your wond'ring eyes and see
Whether ought can better'd be.

There's her hair, with which love angles,
And beholders' eyes entangles;
For, in those fair curled snares,

They are hamper'd unawares,
And compell'd to swear a duty
To her sweet enthralling beauty.
In my mind 'tis the most fair
That was ever called hair,
Somewhat brighter than a brown;
And her tresses waving down
At full length, and so dispread
Mantles her from foot to head.

If you saw her arched brow,
Tell me, pray, what art knows how
To have made it in a line
More exact or more divine.
Beauty there may be descried
In the height of all her pride;
'Tis a meanly-rising plain,
Whose pure white hath many a vein,
Interlacing like the springs
In the earth's enamellings.
If the tale be not a toy
Of the little winged Boy,
When he means to strike a heart,
Thence he throws the fatal dart,
Which of wounds still makes a pair,
One of Love, one of Despair.

Round her visage—or so near
To a roundness doth appear,
That no more of length it takes,
Than what best proportion makes.

Short her chin is, and yet so
As it is just long enow;

Loveliness doth seem to glory
In that circling promontory.
Pretty moving features skip
'Twixt that hillock and the lip,
If you note her but the while
She is pleased to speak or smile.

And her lips, that knew no dullness,
Full are, in the meanest fullness;
Those the leaves be whose unfolding
Brings sweet pleasures to beholding;
For such pearls they do disclose,
Both the Indies match not those;
Yet are so in order placed,
As their whiteness is more graced.
Each part is so well disposed,
And her dainty mouth composed,
So as there is no distortion
Misbeseems that sweet proportion.

When her ivory teeth she buries
'Twixt her two enticing cherries,
There appears such pleasures hidden,
As might tempt what were forbidden.
If you look again, the whiles
She doth part those lips in smiles,
'Tis as when a flash of light
Breaks from heaven to glad the night.

Other parts my pencil crave,
But those lips I cannot leave;
For methinketh I should go

And forsake those cherries so,
There's a kind of excellence
Holds me from departing hence.
I would tell you what it were,
But my cunning fails me there.
They are like in their discloses
To the morning's dewy roses,
That beside the name of fair
Cast perfumes that sweet the air.
Melting soft her kisses be,
And had I now two or three,
More inspired by their touch,
I had prais'd them twice as much.

But, sweet Muses, mark ye how
Her fair eyes do check me now,
That I seem'd to pass them so,
And their praises overgo;
And yet blame me not, that I
Would so fain have pass'd them by;
For I feared to have seen them,
Lest there were some danger in them.
Yet such gentle looks they lend,
As might make her foe a friend;
And by their allurings move
All beholders unto love.
Such a power is also there,
As will keep those thoughts in fear;
And command enough I saw,
To hold impudence in awe.
There may he, that knows to love,
Read contents which are above

Their ignoble aims, who know
Nothing that so high doth grow.
Whilst she me beholding is,
My heart dares not think amiss;
For her sight most piercing clear,
Seems to see what's written there.

Those bright eyes, that with their light
Oftentimes have blest my sight,
And in turning thence their shining
Left me in sad darkness pining,
Are the rarest, loveliest grey,
And do cast forth such a ray,
As the man that black prefers,
More would like this grey of hers.

When their matchless beams she shrouds,
'Tis like Cynthia hid in clouds.
If again she show them light,
'Tis like morning after night.
And 'tis worthy well beholding,
With how many a pretty folding
Her sweet eyelids grace that fair,
Meanly fring'd with beaming hair;
Whereby neatly overspread,
Those bright lamps are shadowed.

'Twixt the eyes no hollow place,
Wrinkle, nor undecent space,
Disproportions her in ought,
Though by envy faults were sought.

On those eyebrows never yet
Did disdainful scowling sit.
Love and Goodness gotten thither,

Sit on equal thrones together;
And do throw just scorn on them
That their government contemn.

Then, almost obscur'd, appears
Those her jewel-gracing ears,
Whose own beauties more adorn,
Than the richest pearl that's worn
By the proudest Persian dames,
Or the best that Nature frames.
There the voice, in love's meanders,
Those their pretty circlings wanders,
Whose rare turnings will admit
No rude speech to enter it.

Stretching from mount forehead lies
Beauty's cape betwixt her eyes.
Which two crystal-passing lakes
Love's delightful isthmus makes;
Neither more nor less extending
Than most meriteth commending.
Those in whom that part hath been
Best deserving praises seen,
Or, survey'd without affection,
Came the nearest to perfection,
Would scarce handsome ones appear
If with her compared they were.
For it is so much excelling,
That it passeth means of telling.

On the either side of this
Love's most lovely prospect is:
Those her smiling cheeks, whose colour
Comprehends true beauty fuller

Than the curious't mixtures can,
That are made by art of man.
It is beauty's garden-plot,
Where as in a true-love knot,
So the snowy lily grows,
Mixed with the crimson rose,
That as friends they joined be.
Yet they seem to disagree
Whether of the two shall reign,
And the lilies oft obtain
Greatest sway, unless a blush
Help the roses at a push.
Hollow fallings none there are;
There's no wrinkle, there's no scar;
Only there's a little mole,
Which from Venus' cheek was stole.

If it were a thing in Nature
Possible, that any creature
Might decaying life repair
Only by the help of air,
There were no such salve for death
As the balm of her sweet breath.
Or if any human power
Might detain the soul an hour
From the flesh to dust bequeathing,
It would linger on her breathing,
And be half in mind that there
More than mortal pleasures were.
And whose fortune were so fair
As to draw so sweet an air,
Would no doubt let slighted lie

The perfumes of Araby.
For the English eglantine
Doth, through envy of her, pine.
Violets, and roses too,
Fears that she will them undo;
And it seems that in her breast
Is compos'd the Phœnix' nest.

But descend awhile, mine eye;
See if polish'd ivory,
Or the finest-fleeced flocks,
Or the whitest Albion rocks,
For comparisons may stand,
To express that snowy hand.
When she draws it from her glove
It hath virtue to remove,
Or disperse 't, if there be ought
Cloudeth the beholder's thought.
If that palm but toucheth your,
You shall feel a secret power
Cheer your heart, and glad it more,
Though it droop'd with grief before.

Through the veins disposed true
Crimson yields a sapphire hue,
Which adds grace, and more delight,
By embracing with the white.
Smooth, and moist, and soft, and tender,
Are her palms; the fingers slender,
Tipp'd with mollified pearl:
And if that transformed girl
Whose much cunning made her dare
With Jove's daughter to compare,

Had that hand worn, maugre spite,
She had shamed the goddess quite.
For there is in every part
Nature perfecter than Art.

These were joined to those arms
That were never made for harms;
But possess the sweetest graces,
That may apt them for embraces.
Like the silver streams they be,
Which from some high hill we see
Clipping in a goodly vale,
That grows proud of such a thrall.

Neither alabaster rocks,
Pearl-strow'd shores, nor Cotswold flocks,
Nor the mountains tipp'd with snow,
Nor the milk-white swans of Po,
Can appear so fair to me
As her spotless shoulders be.
They are like some work of state,
Cover'd with the richest plate,
And a presence have, that strike
With devotions, goddess-like.

'Twixt those shoulders, meanly spread,
To support that globe-like head,
Riseth up her neck, wherein
Beauty seemeth to begin
To disclose itself in more
Tempting manner than before.
How therein she doth excel,
Though I would, I cannot tell:
For I naught on earth espy,

That I may express it by.

There should lovers, as in duty
Hang rich trophies up to beauty.
'Tis proportion'd to a height
That is even with delight.
Yet it is a great deal higher
Than to answer base desire.

Where the neck hath end, begins
That smooth path where love's close gins
Are thick placed to enthral
Such as that way straggle shall.
There a pleasing passage lies,
Far beyond the sight of eyes:
And much more delight contains
Than the old Elysian plains.

Whatsoever others say,
There's alone the Milky Way,
That to beauty's walks doth go,
Which, if others came to know,
In possessing their delight,
They should never reach the height
Of the pleasures which I share,
Whilst that those debarred are.

Yet unspoken of there rests
Her two twin-like lovely breasts,
Whose round-rising, pretty panting,
I would tell, but art is wanting.
Words can never well declare
Her fair sweet perfections there:
For, would measures give me leave
To express what I conceive,

I do know I should go near
Half to ravish all that hear.
And, but that I learn to season
What I apprehend with reason,
It had made my passions' weight
Sink me through my own conceit.
There I find so large a measure
Of an unexpressed pleasure,
That my heart, through strong surmise,
In a pleasing fainting lies.

He that there may rest to prove,
Softer finds those beds of love,
Than the cotton ripest grown,
Or fine pillows of such down,
As in time of moulting, fans
From the breasts of silver swans.
Those two sisters are a pair
Smooth alike, like soft, like fair,
If together they be view'd.
Yet if they apart be shew'd,
That you touch, or see, seems smoother,
Softer, fairer, than the other.

That the colour may delight,
So much red as makes the white
Purer seem, is shed among:
And then here and there along
Runs a sapphire-mine, whose blue,
Shadow'd, makes so brave a show
On those lily mounts, as tho'
Beauty's simples there did grow.
In the vale, 'twixt either hill,

Lies desire in ambush still;
And surpriseth every eye
Which doth that way dare to pry.

There is sure the twy-top hill
Where the poets learn their skill.
That's Parnassus where the Muses
Chaste and wise Minerva uses.
Her two cherrilets are those,
Whence the pleasant'st nectar flows:
And no fruits e'er equall'd these,
Fetch'd from the Hesperides.

Once, as Cynthia's games she chased,
And for air left half unlaced
Her light summer robe of green,
Beauty's safe but slender screen,
Unawares I partly spied
That fair lily field unhid,
Which you may her belly name;
Yet nor she nor I to blame,
For it was but what mine eye
Might behold with modesty.

'Tis a fair and matchless plain
Where unknown delights remain;
'Tis the store-house wherein pleasure
Hides the richest of her treasure;
Which true modesty in ward
Keeps with a continual guard
Of such virtues as she's sure
No corruption can allure.

There, they say, for mind it well,
I do this by hearsay tell,

Grows her navel, which doth seem
Like some jewel of esteem;
With so wondrous cunning wrought
That an injury 'tis thought
Such a beauty, with the rest,
Should, unknown, be unexprest.

Somewhat else there is, that's hidden,
Which to name I am forbidden:
Neither have I ever pried
After that should be unspied.
Never shall my maiden Muse
So herself and me abuse,
As to sing what I may fear
Will offend the choicest ear.
Though I know, if none be by
But true friends to modesty,
I might name each part at will,
And yet no man's thought be ill.

Yet, for fear loose hearers may
Judge amiss, if more I say,
I'll descend to shun all blame,
To the pillars of this frame;
Where, though I ne'er aim'd so high
As her dainty youthful thigh—
Whose rare softness, smoothness, fullness,
Being known, would teach my dullness
Such a strain as might befit
Some brave Tuscan poet's wit—
Once a saucy bush I spied,
Pluck her silken skirts aside;
So discover'd unto me

All those beauties to the knee.
And, before the thorns' entanglings
Had let go the silver spanglings,
I perceived the curious knitting
Of those joints were well befitting;
Such a noble piece of work,
'Mongst whose turnings seem'd to lurk
Much to entertain the sight
With new objects of delight.

Then the leg for shape as rare,
Will admit of no compare.
Straight it is; the ankle lean,
Full the calf, but in the mean;
And the slender foot doth fit,
So each way to suit with it,
As she nothing less excels
Therein, than in all things else.
Yea, from head to foot her feature
Shows her an unblemish'd creature:
In whom love with reason might
Find so matchless a delight,
That more cannot be acquired,
Nor a greater bliss desired.

Yet if you will rest an hour
Under yonder shady bower,
I anon my Muse will raise
To a higher pitch of praise.
But awhile with raspice-berries,
Strawberries, ripe pears, and cherries
(Such as these our groves do bear),

We will cool our palates there.
And those homely cates among,
Now and then a past'ral song
Shall my lad here sing and play,
Such as you had yesterday.