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

Boy, ha' done; for now my brain
Is inspir'd afresh again,
And new raptures pressing are,
To be sung in praise of her,
Whose fair picture lieth nigh,
Quite unveil'd to every eye.
No small favour hath it been
That such beauty might be seen:
Therefore, ever may they rue it,
Who with evil eyes shall view it.
Yea, what ancient stories tell,
Once to rude Actæon fell,
When with evil thoughts he stood
Eyeing Cynthia in the flood,
May that fatal horned curse
Light upon them, or a worse.

But, whatever others be,
Lest some fault be found in me,
If unperfect this remain,
I will over-trim 't again.
Therefore, turn where we begun:
And now all is overrun,
Mark if everything exprest
Suit not so unto the rest,
As if Nature would prefer
All perfections unto her.
Wherefore seems it strange to any
That they daily see so many,
Who were else most perfect creatures,
In some one part want true features?
Since, from all the fair'st that live,

Nature took the best, to give
Her perfection in each part.
I alone except her heart;
For, among all woman-kind,
Such as hers is hard to find.

If you truly note her face,
You shall find it hath a grace
Neither wanton, nor o'er-serious,
Nor too yielding, nor imperious;
But with such a feature blest,
It is that which pleaseth best,
And delights each sev'ral eye,
That affects with modesty.
Lowliness hath in her look
Equal place with greatness took;
And if beauty anywhere
Claims prerogatives, 'tis there;
For at once thus much 'twill do,
Threat, command, persuade, and woo.

In her speech there is not found
Any harsh, unpleasing sound,
But a well-beseeming power,
Neither higher, neither lower,
Than will suit with her perfection;
'Tis the loadstone of affection;
And that man, whose judging eyes
Could well sound such mysteries,
Would in love make her his choice,
Though he did but hear her voice.
For such accents breathe not, whence
Beauty keeps non-residence.

Never word of hers I hear
But 'tis music to mine ear,
And much more contentment brings
Than the sweetly-touched strings
Of the pleasing lute, whose strains
Ravish hearers when it plains.

Raised by her discourse, I fly
In contented thoughts so high,
That I pass the common measures
Of the dulled senses' pleasures,
And leave far below my flight
Vulgar pitches of delight.

If she smile, and merry be,
All about her are as she,
For each looker-on takes part
Of the joy that's in her heart.

If she grieve, or you but spy
Sadness peeping through her eye,
Such a grace it seems to borrow,
That you'll fall in love with sorrow,
And abhor the name of mirth
As the hateful'st thing on earth.
Should I see her shed a tear,
My poor eyes would melt, I fear.
For much more in hers appears,
Than in other women's tears;
And her look did never feign
Sorrow where there was no pain.

Seldom hath she been espied
So impatient as to chide:
For if any see her so,

They'll in love with anger grow.
Sigh, or speak, or smile, or talk,
Sing, or weep, or sit, or walk,
Everything that she doth do
Decent is, and lovely too.
Each part that you shall behold
Hath within itself enrolled
What you could desire to see,
Or your heart conceive to be.
Yet if from that part your eye
Moving, shall another spy,
There you see as much or more
Than you thought to praise before.

While the eye surveys it, you
Will imagine that her brow
Hath all beauty; when her cheek
You behold, it is as like
To be deemed fairest too,
So much there can beauty do.
Look but thence upon her eye,
And you wonder, by and by,
How there may be anywhere
So much worthy praise as there.
Yet if you survey her breast,
Then as freely you'll protest
That in them perfection is;
Though I know that one poor kiss
From her tempting lips would then
Make all that forsworn again.
For the selfsame moving grace
Is at once in every place.

She her beauty never foils
With your ointments, waters, oils,
Nor no loathsome fucus settles,
Mix'd with Jewish fasting spittles.
Fair by nature being born,
She doth borrow'd beauty scorn;
Whoso kisses her needs fear
No unwholesome varnish there;
For from thence he only sips
The pure nectar of her lips,
And at once with these he closes
Melting rubies, cherries, roses.

Then in her behaviour she
Striveth but herself to be;
Keeping such a decent state,
As indeed she seems to hate
Precious leisure should be spent
In abused compliment.
Though she knows what other do,
And can all their courtship too,
She is not in so ill case,
As to need their borrow'd grace.

Her discourses sweeten'd are
With a kind of artless care,
That expresseth greater art
Than affected words impart.
So her gestures, being none
But that freeness which alone
Suits the braveness of her mind,
Make her, of herself, to find
Postures more becoming far

Than the mere acquired are.

If you mark when for her pleasure
She vouchsafes to foot a measure,
Though with others' skill she pace,
There's a sweet delightful grace
In herself, which doth prefer
Art beyond that art in her.

Neither needs she beat her wit
To devise what dressings fit.
Her complexion, and her feature,
So beholding are to Nature,
If she in the fashions go,
All the reason she doth so
Is because she would not err
In appearing singular:
Doubtless not for any thought
That 'twill perfect her in ought.

Many a dainty-seeming dame
Is in native beauties lame.
Some are graced by their tires,
As their quoifs, their hats, their wires.
One a ruff doth best become;
Falling-bands much alt'reth some.
And their favours oft we see
Changed as their dressings be:
Which her beauty never fears,
For it graceth all she wears.
If ye note her tire to-day,
That doth suit her best, you'll say.
Mark what she next morn doth wear;
That becomes her best, you'll swear.

Yea, as oft as her you see,
Such new graces still there be,
As she ever seemeth grac'd
Most by that she weareth last,
Though it be the same she wore
But the very day before.

When she takes her tires about her
(Never half so rich without her),
At the putting on of them,
You may liken every gem
To those lamps which at a play
Are set up to light the day;
For their lustre adds no more
To what Titan gave before,
Neither doth their pretty gleamings
Hinder ought his greater beamings;
And yet, which is strange to me,
When those costly deckings be
Laid away, there seems descried
Beauties which those veils did hide;
And she looks as doth the moon
Past some cloud through which she shone;
Or some jewel watch, whose case,
Set with diamonds, seems to grace
What it doth contain within,
Till the curious work be seen;
Then 'tis found that costly shrining
Did but hinder t'other's shining.

If you chance to be in place
When her mantle she doth grace,

You would presently protest
Irish dressings were the best.
If again she lay it down,
While you view her in a gown,
And how those her dainty limbs
That close-bodied garment trims,
You would swear, and swear again,
She appeared loveliest then.

But if she so truly fair
Should untie her shining hair
And at length that treasure shed,
Jove's endured Ganimed,
Neither Cytherea's joy,
Nor the sweet self-loving boy
Who in beauty did surpass,
Nor the fair'st that ever was,
Could, to take you prisoner, bring
Looks so sweetly conquering.

She excels her whom Apollo
Once with weeping eyes did follow;
Or that nymph who, shut in towers,
Was beguil'd with golden showers;
Yea, and she, whose love was wont
To swim o'er the Hellespont
For her sake, though in attire
Fittest to inflame desire,
Seem'd not half so fair to be,
Nor so lovely as is she.
For the man whose happy eye
Views her in full majesty,
Knows she hath a power that moves

More than doth the Queen of Loves,
When she useth all her power
To inflame her paramour.

And sometime I do admire
All men burn not with desire.
Nay, I muse her servants are not
Pleading love; but oh, they dare not:
And I therefore wonder why
They do not grow sick and die.

Sure they would do so, but that
By the ordinance of Fate,
There is some concealed thing
So each gazer limiting,
He can see no more of merit
Than beseems his worth and spirit.
For in her a grace there shines,
That o'er-daring thoughts confines,
Making worthless men despair
To be loved of one so fair.
Yea, the destinies agree,
Some good judgments blind should be,
And not gain the power of knowing
Those rare beauties in her growing.
Reason doth as much imply:
For, if every judging eye
Which beholdeth her should there
Find what excellences are,
All, o'ercome by those perfections,
Would be captive to affections.
So, in happiness unblest,
She for lovers should not rest.

This, well heeding, think upon:
And, if there be any one
Who alloweth not the worth
Which my Muse hath painted forth,
Hold it no defect in her,
But that he's ordain'd to err.
Or if any female wight
Should detract from this I write,
She, I yield, may show her wit,
But disparage her no whit;
For on earth few women be,
That from Envy's touch are free;
And who ever Envy knew
Yield those honours that were due?

Though sometimes my song I raise
To unused heights of praise,
And break forth as I shall please
Into strange hyperboles,
'Tis to show conceit hath found
Worth beyond expression's bound.
Though her breath I do compare
To the sweet'st perfumes that are;
Or her eyes, that are so bright,
To the morning's cheerful light;
Yet I do it not so much
To infer that she is such,
As to show that being blest
With what merits name of best,
She appears more fair to me
Than all creatures else that be.

Her true beauty leaves behind

Apprehensions in my mind,
Of more sweetness than all art,
Or inventions can impart;
Thoughts too deep to be expressed,
And too strong to be suppressed;
Which oft raiseth my conceits
To so unbelieved heights,
That I fear some shallow brain
Thinks my Muses do but feign.
Sure, he wrongs them if he do:
For, could I have reached to
So like strains as these you see,
Had there been no such as she?
Is it possible that I,
Who scarce heard of poesy,
Should a mere Idea raise
To as true a pitch of praise
As the learned poets could,
Now, or in the times of old,
All those real beauties bring
Honour'd by their sonneting—
Having arts, and favours too,
More t'encourage what they do?
No; if I had never seen
Such a beauty, I had been
Piping in the country shades
To the homely dairymaids,
For a country fiddler's fees,
Clouted cream, and bread and cheese.

I no skill in numbers had,
More than every shepherd's lad,

Till she taught me strains that were
Pleasing to her gentle ear.
Her fair splendour and her worth
From obscureness drew me forth;
And, because I had no Muse,
She herself deign'd to infuse
All the skill by which I climb
To these praises in my rhyme:
Which if she had pleased to add
To that art sweet Drayton had;
Or that happy swain that shall
Sing Britannia's Pastoral;
Or to theirs, whose verse set forth
Rosalind and Stella's worth;
They had doubled all their skill
Gained on Apollo's hill,
And as much more set her forth,
As I'm short of them in worth.
They had unto heights aspired,
Might have justly been admired;
And in such brave strains had moved
As of all had been approved.

I must praise her as I may;
Which I do mine own rude way:
Sometime setting forth her glories
By unheard-of allegories.
Think not, though, my Muse now sings
Mere absurd or feigned things.
If to gold I like her hair,
Or to stars her eyes so fair;
Though I praise her skin by snow,

Or by pearls her double row,
'Tis that you might gather thence
Her unmatched excellence.

Eyes as fair for eyes hath she
As stars fair for stars may be;
And each part as fair doth show,
In it kind, as white in snow.
'Tis no grace to her at all
If her hair I sunbeams call:
For, were there a power in art
So to portrait every part,
All men might those beauties see
As they do appear to me.
I would scorn to make compare
With the glorious't things that are.

Nought I e'er saw fair enow
But the hair, the hair to show.
Yet some think him overbold
That compares it but to gold.
He from reason seems to err,
Who, commending of his dear,
Gives her lips the ruby's hue,
Or by pearls her teeth doth show.
But what pearls, what rubies can
Seem so lovely fair to man,
As her lips whom he doth love,
When in sweet discourse they move,
Or her lovelier teeth, the while
She doth bless him with a smile?

Stars indeed fair creatures be,
Yet amongst us where is he

Joys not more the while he lies
Sunning in his mistress' eyes,
Than in all the glimmering light
Of a starry winter's night?

Him to flatter most suppose,
That prefers before the rose
Or the lilies, while they grow,
Or the flakes of new-fall'n snow,
Her complexion whom he loveth;
And yet this my Muse approveth.
For, in such a beauty, meets
Unexpressed moving sweets,
That the like unto them no man
Ever saw but in a woman.
Look on moon, on stars, on sun,
All God's creatures overrun,
See if all of them presents
To your mind such sweet contents;
Or, if you from them can take
Ought that may a beauty make,
Shall one half so pleasing prove,
As is hers whom you do love?
For indeed, if there had been
Other mortal beauties seen,
Objects for the love of man,
Vain was their creation than.
Yea, if this could well be granted,
Adam might his Eve have wanted.
But a woman is the creature
Whose proportion with our nature

Best agrees, and whose perfections
Sympathize with our affections,
And not only finds our senses
Pleasure in their excellences,
But our reason also knows
Sweetness in them, that outgoes
Human wit to comprehend,
Much more, truly, to commend.

Note the beauty of an eye;
And if ought you praise it by
Leave such passion in your mind,
Let my reason's eye be blind.
Mark if ever red or white
Anywhere gave such delight
As when they have taken place
In a worthy woman's face.
He that so much hath not noted,
Will not, or is grown besotted.

Such as lovers are conceive
What impressions beauty leave
And those hearts that fire have took
By a love-inflaming look,
Those believe what here I say,
And suppose not that I stray
In a word, by setting forth
Any praise beyond true worth.

And yet, wherefore should I care
What another's censures are,
Since I know her to be such

As no praise can be too much?
All that see her will agree
In the self-same mind with me,
If their wit be worth the having,
Or their judgment merit craving.
And the man that kens her not,
Speaks, at best, he knows not what:
So his envy or good will,
Neither doth her good nor ill.

Then fools' cavils I disdain,
And call back my Muse again
To decipher out the rest,
For I have too long digressed.

This is she, in whom there meets
All variety of sweets.
An epitome of all
That on earth we fair may call.
Nay, yet more I dare aver:
He that is possess'd of her,
Shall at once all pleasure find,
That is reap'd from womankind.

Oh, what man would further range,
That in one might find such change?
What dull eye such worth can see,
And not sworn a lover be?
Or from whence was he, could prove
Such a monster in his love,
As in thought to use amiss
Such unequall'd worth as this?
Pity 'twere that such a creature,
Phœnix-like for matchless feature,

Should so suffer, or be blamed
With what now the times are shamed.

Beauty, unto me divine,
Makes my honest thoughts incline
Unto better things than that
Which the vulgar aimeth at.
And, I vow, I grieve to see
Any fair and false to be;
Or when I sweet pleasures find
Match'd with a defiled mind.
But above all others her
So much doth my soul prefer,
That to him, whose ill desire
Should so nurse a lawless fire
As to tempt to that which might
Dim her sacred virtue's light,
I could wish that he might die
Ere he did it, though 'twere I.

For if she should hap to stray,
All this beauty would away,
And not her alone undo,
But kill him that prais'd her, too.
But I know her Maker will
Keep her undistained still,
That ensuing ages may
Pattern out by her the way
To all goodness; and if Fate
That appoints all things a date
Hear me would, I'd wish that she
Might for aye preserved be.
And that neither wasting cares,

Neither all-consuming years,
Might from what she is estrange her,
Or in mind or body change her.
For oh, why should envious Time
Perpetrate so vile a crime
As to waste, or wrong, or stain,
What shall ne'er be match'd again?

Much I hope it shall not be:
For, if Love deceive not me,
To that height of fair she grows,
Age or sickness, beauty's foes,
Cannot so much wrong it there,
But enough there will appear,
Ever worthy to be loved;
And that heart shall more be moved,
Where there is a judging eye,
With those prints it doth espy
Of her beauty wrong'd by Time,
Than by others in their prime.

One advantage she hath more,
That adds grace to all before.
It is this—her beauty's fame
Hath not done her honour shame.
For where beauty we do find,
Envy still is so unkind
That although their virtues are
Such as pass their beauties far,
Yet on slander's rocks they be
Shipwreck'd oftentimes, we see;
And are subject to the wrongs
Of a thousand spiteful tongues,

When the greatest fault they had
Was that some would make them bad,
And not finding them for action,
Sought for vengeance by detraction.

But her beauty sure no tongue
Is so villainous to wrong.
Never did the jealous't ear
Any muttering rumour hear
That might cause the least suspects
Of indifferent defects.
And, which somewhat stranger is,
They whose slanders few can miss,
Though set on by evil will
And habituated ill,
Nothing can of her invent
Whence to frame disparagement;
Which, if we respect the crimes
Of these loose injurious times,
Doth not only truly prove
Great discretion in her love,
And that she hath liv'd upright
In each jealous tongue's despite,
But it must be understood
That her private thoughts are good.
Yea, 'tis an apparent sign
That her beauty is divine:
And that angels have a care
Men's polluting tongues should spare
To defile what God hath given
To be dear to earth and heaven.

Tell me, you that hear me now,

Is there any one of you
Wanteth feeling of affection,
Or that loves not such perfection?
Can there be so dull an ear
As of so much worth to hear,
And not seriously incline
To this saint-like friend of mine?
If there be, the fault doth lie
In my artless poesy.
For if I could reach the strain
Which methinks I might obtain,
Or but make my measures fly,
Equal with my fantasy,
I would not permit an ear
To attend unravish'd here,
If but so much sense it knew
As the blocks that Orpheus drew.

Think on this description well,
And your noblest ladies tell;
Which of you, that worth can see,
This my mistress would not be?

You brave English, who have run
From the rising of the sun,
Till in travelling you found
Where he doth conclude his round;
You, that have the beauties seen,
Which in farthest lands have been;
And survey'd the fair resorts
Of the French and Spanish courts,
With the best that fame renowns
In the rich trans-Alpine towns,

Do not, with our brainless fry
That admire each novelty,
Wrong your country's fame in ought
But here freely speak your thought;
And I durst presume you'll swear
She's not matched anywhere.

Gallants, you that would so fain
Nymphs' and ladies' loves obtain,
You that strive to serve and please
Fairest queens and empresses,
Tell me this and tell me right,
If you would not, so you might,
Leave them all despis'd, to prove
What contents are in her love?

Could your fathers ever tell
Of a nymph did more excel?
Or hath any story told
Of the like, in times of old?
Dido was not such a one,
Nor the Trojan's paragon,
Though they so much favour found,
As to have their honours crown'd
By the best of poets' pens,
Ever known before, or since.

For had Dido been so fair,
Old Anchises' noble heir
Jove's command had disobeyed,
And with her in Carthage stayed,
Where he would have quite forswore
Seeing the Lavinian shore.
Or, had Leda's daughter been,

When she was the Spartan queen,
Equal with this lovely one,
Menelaus had never gone
From her sight so far away
As to leave her for a prey,
And his room to be possest
By her wanton Phrygian guest.

But lest yet among you some
Think she may behind these come,
Stay a little more and hear me,
In another strain I'll rear me.
I'll unmask a beauty, now,
Which to kiss the gods may bow,
And so feelingly did move,
That your souls shall fall in love.

I have yet the best behind:
Her most fair, unequall'd mind.
This that I have here expressed
Is but that which veils the rest,
An incomparable shrine,
Of a beauty more divine.

Whereof ere I farther speak,
Off again my song I'll break,
And if you among the roses,
Which yon quickset hedge encloses,
Will with plucking flowers beguile
Tedious-seeming time awhile,
Till I step to yonder green,
Whence the sheep so plain are seen,
I will be returned ere
You an hour have stay'd there.

And excuse me now, I pray,
Though I rudely go away,
For affairs I have to do,
Which, unless I look into,
I may sing out summer here
Like the idle grasshopper,
And at winter hide my head,
Or else fast till I am dead.

Yet if rustic past'ral measures
Can aught add unto your pleasures,
I will leave you some of those
Which it pleas'd me to compose
When despairing fits were over,
And I, made a happy lover,
Exercis'd my loving passion
In another kind of fashion
Than to utter I devised,
When I feared to be despised.

Those shall lie in gage for me
Till I back returned be,
And in writing here you have them;
Either sing, or read, or leave them.