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

Oh! how honoured are my songs,
Graced by your melodious tongues!
And how pleasing do they seem,
Now your voices carol them!
Were not yet that task to do,
Which my word enjoins me to,
I should beg of you to hear
What your own inventions were.

But before I ought will crave,
What I promised you shall have.
And as I on mortal creatures
Call'd, to view her body's features,
Showing how to make the senses
Apprehend her excellences,
Now I speak of no worse subject
Than a soul's and reason's object:
And relate a beauty's glories,
Fitting heavenly auditories.
Therefore, whilst I sit and sing,
Hem me, angels, in a ring;
Come, ye spirits, which have eyes
That can gaze on deities,
And unclogg'd with brutish senses,
Comprehend such excellences.
Or, if any mortal ear
Would be granted leave to hear,
And find profit with delight
In what now I shall indite,
Let him first be sure to season
A prepared heart with reason:

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And with judgment drawing nigh,
Lay all fond affections by.
So, through all her veilings, he
Shall the soul of beauty see.

But avoid, you earth-bred wights,
Cloy'd with sensual appetites:
On base objects glut your eyes,
Till your starveling pleasure dies:
Feed your ears with such delights,
As may match your gross conceits:
For, within your muddy brain,
These you never can contain.

Think not, you who by the sense
Only judge of excellence,
Or do all contentment place
In the beauty of a face,
That these higher thoughts of our
Soar so base a pitch as your.
I can give, as well as you,
Outward beauties all their due:
I can most contentments see,
That in love or women be.

Though I dote not on the features
Of our daintiest female creatures,
Nor was e'er so void of shames
As to play their lawless games,
I more prize a snowy hand
Than the gold on Tagus' strand,
And a dainty lip before
All the greatest monarch's store.
Yea, from these I reap as true

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And as large contents as you.

Yet to them I am not tied:
I have rarer sweets espied,
Wider prospects of true pleasure,
Than your curbed thoughts can measure.
In her soul my soul descries
Objects that may feed her eyes.
And the beauty of her mind
Shows my reason where to find
All my former pleasure doubled,
Neither with such passion troubled,
As wherewith it oft was crost,
Nor so easy to be lost.

I that ravish'd lay, well-nigh,
By the lustre of her eye,
And had almost sworn affection
To the fore-express'd perfection,
As if nothing had been higher
Whereunto I might aspire,
Now have found, by seeking nearer,
Inward worth that shining clearer
By a sweet and secret moving,
Draws me to a dearer loving.
And whilst I that love conceive,
Such impressions it doth leave
In the intellective part,
As defaceth from my heart
Every thought of those delights
Which allure base appetites;
And my mind so much employs
In contemplating those joys

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Which a purer sight doth find
In the beauty of her mind,
That I so thereon am set,
As methinks I could forget
All her sweetest outward graces,
Though I lay in her embraces.

But some, thinking with a smile
What they would have done the while,
Now suppose my words are such
As exceed my power too much.
For all those our wantons hold
Void of vigour, dull, and cold,
Or at best but fools, whose flame
Makes not way unto their shame,
Though at length with grief they see
They the fools do prove to be.

These the body so much minded,
That their reason, over-blinded
By the pleasures of the sense,
Hides from them that excellence,
And that sweetness, whose true worth
I am here to blazon forth.

'Tis not, 'tis not those rare graces
That do lurk in women's faces,
'Tis not a display'd perfection,
Youthful eyes, nor clear complexion,
Nor a skin, smooth satin like,
Nor a dainty rosy cheek,
That to wantonness can move
Such as virtuously do love.
Beauty rather gently draws

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Wild desires to reason's laws;
And oft frights men from that sin
They had else transgressed in,
Through a sweet amazement strook
From an over-ruling look.
Beauty never tempteth men
To lasciviousness, but when
Careless idleness hath brought
Wicked longings into thought.
Nor doth youth, or heat of blood,
Make men prove what is not good,
Nor the strength of which they vaunt;
'Tis the strength and power they want;
And the baseness of the mind
Makes their brute desires inclin'd
To pursue those vain delights
Which affect their appetites;
And so blinded do they grow,
Who are overtaken so,
As their dullness cannot see,
Nor believe that better be.

Some have blood as hot as their,
Whose affections loosest are;
Bodies that require no art
To supply weak Nature's part;
Youth they have; and sure might, too,
Boast of what some shameless do;
Yet their minds, that aim more high
Than those baser pleasures lie,
Taught by virtue can suppress
All attempts of wantonness,

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And such powerful motives frame
To extinguish passion's flame,
That, by reason's good direction,
Qualifying loose affection,
They'll in midst of beauty's fires
Walk unscorch'd of ill desires;
Yet no such as stupid shame
Keeps from actions worthy blame,
But in all so truly man,
That their apprehensions can
Prize the body's utmost worth,
And find many pleasures forth
In those beauties—more than you,
That abuse them, ever knew.

But perhaps her outward grace,
Here described, hath ta'en such place
In some o'er-enamour'd breast,
And so much his heart possessed,
As he thinks it passeth telling,
How she may be more excelling,
Or what worth I can prefer
To be more admired in her.
Therefore now I will be brief,
To prevent that misbelief.
And if there be present here
Any one whose nicer ear
Tasks my measures as offending,
In too seriously commending
What affects the sense, or may
Injure virtue any way,
Let them know 'tis understood

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That if they were truly good,
It could never breed offence
That I showed the excellence,
With the power of God and nature,
In the beauty of his creature:
They from thence would rather raise
Cause to meditate his praise,
And thus think: How fair must He
That hath made this fair one be!

That was my proposed end,
And to make them more attend
Unto this, so much excelling,
As it passeth means of telling.

But, at worst, if any strain
Makes your memories retain
Sparks of such a baneful fire
As may kindle ill desire,
This that follows after shall
Not alone extinguish all,
But e'en make you blush with shame,
That your thoughts were so to blame.
Yet I know, when I have done,
In respect of that bright sun
Whose inestimable light
I would blazon to your sight,
These ensuing flashes are
As to Cynthia's beams a star;
Or a petty comet's ray,
To the glorious eye of day.
For what power of words or art
Can her worth at full impart?

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Or what is there may be found,
Plac'd within the senses' bound,
That can paint those sweets to me,
Which the eyes of love do see?
Or the beauties of that mind
Which her body hath enshrined?

Can I think the Guide of Heaven
Hath so bountifully given
Outward features, cause He meant
To have made less excellent
Her divine part? Or suppose
Beauty goodness doth oppose,
Like those fools who do despair
To find any good and fair?
Rather there I seek a mind
Most excelling, where I find
God hath to the body lent
Most beseeming ornament.
But, though he that did inspire
First the true Promethean fire,
In each several soul did place
Equal excellence and grace,
As some think, yet have not they
Equal beauties every way.
For they more or less appear
As the outward organs are:
Following much the temp'rature
Of the body, gross or pure.
And I do believe it true,
That, as we the body view
Nearer to perfection grow,

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So the soul herself doth show
Others more and more excelling
In her power, as in her dwelling.
For that pureness giveth way,
Better to disclose each ray
To the dull conceit of man,
Than a grosser substance can.
Thus, through spotless crystal, we
May the day's full glory see;
When, if clearest sunbeams pass
Through a foul polluted glass,
So discolour'd they'll appear,
As those stains they shone through were.

Let no critic cavil then,
If I dare affirm again
That her mind's perfections are
Fairer than her body's far;
And I need not prove it by
Axioms of philosophy,
Since no proof can better be
Than their rare effect in me.
For, while other men complaining,
Tell their mistresses' disdaining,
Free from care I write a story
Only of her worth and glory.

While most lovers pining sit,
Robb'd of liberty and wit,
Vassaling themselves with shame
To some proud imperious dame,
Or in songs their fate bewailing,
Show the world their faithless failing,

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I, enwreath'd with boughs of myrtle,
Fare like the beloved turtle.

Yea, while most are most untoward,
Peevish, vain, inconstant, froward,
While their best contentments bring
Nought but after-sorrowing,
She those childish humours slighting
Hath conditions so delighting,
And doth so my bliss endeavour,
As my joy increaseth ever.

By her actions I can see
That her passions so agree
Unto reason, as they err
Seldom to distemper her.

Love she can, and doth, but so
As she will not overthrow
Love's content by any folly,
Or by deeds that are unholy.
Dotingly she ne'er affects;
Neither willingly neglects
Honest love; but means doth find
With discretion to be kind.
'Tis nor thund'ring phrase, nor oaths,
Honours, wealth, nor painted clothes,
That can her good liking gain,
If no other worth remain.

Never took her heart delight
In your court-hermaphrodite,
Or such frothy gallants as
For the time's heroës pass,
Such who, still in love, do all

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Fair, and sweet, and lady call,
And where'er they hap to stray,
Either prate the rest away,
Or of all discourse to seek
Shuffle in at cent or gleek.

Goodness more delights her than
All their mask of folly can.
Fond she hateth to appear,
Though she hold her friend as dear
As her part of life unspent,
Or the best of her content.

If the heat of youthful fires
Warm her blood with those desires
Which are by the course of nature
Stirred in every perfect creature,
As those passions kindle, so
Doth Heaven's grace and reason grow
Abler to suppress in her
Those rebellions, and they stir
Never more affection then
One good thought allays again.

I could say so chaste is she
As the new-blown roses be;
Or the drifts of snow that none
Ever touch'd or look'd upon.
But that were not worth a fly,
Seeing so much chastity
Old Pygmalion's picture had:
Yea, those eunuchs, born or made
Ne'er to know desire, might say
She deserv'd no more than they;

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Whereas, whilst their worth proceeds
From such wants as they must needs
Be unmov'd, 'cause nature framed
No affections to be tamed,
Through her dainty limbs are spread
Vigour, heat, and freely shed
Life-blood into every vein,
Till they fill and swell again:
And no doubt they strive to force
Way in some forbidden course,
Which by grace she still resists,
And so curbs within their lists
Those desires, that she is chaster
Than if she had none to master.

Malice never lets she in,
Neither hates she ought but sin.
Envy if she could admit,
There's no means to nourish it,
For her gentle heart is pleased
When she knows another's eased:
And there's none who ever got
That perfection she hath not.
So that no cause is there why
She should any one envy.

Mildly angry she'll appear,
That the baser rout may fear
Through presumption to misdo:
Yet she often feigns that too.
But let wrong be whatsoever,
She gives way to choler never.

If she e'er of vengeance thought

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'Twas nor life nor blood was sought,
But, at most, some prayer to move
Justice for abused love,
Or that fate would pay again
Love's neglectors with disdain.

If she ever crav'd of fate
To obtain a higher state,
Or ambitiously were given,
Sure, 'twas but to climb to heaven.
Pride is from her heart as far
As the poles in distance are.
For her worth, nor all this praise,
Can her humble spirit raise
Less to prize me than before,
Or herself to value more.

Were she vain, she might allege
'Twere her sex's privilege.
But she's such as doubtless no man
Knows less folly in a woman.

To prevent a being idle,
Sometime, with her curious needle,
Though it be her meanest glory,
She so limns an antique story,
As Minerva, would she take it,
Might her richest sample make it.

Otherwhile, again, she rather
Labours with delight to gather
Knowledge from such learned writs
As are left by famous wits,
Where she chiefly seeks to know
God, herself, and what we owe

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To our neighbour, since with these
Come all needful knowledges.

She, with Adam, never will
Long to learn both good and ill;
But her state well understood,
Rests herself content with good.

Avarice abhorreth she
As the loathsom'st things that be;
Since she knows it is an ill
That doth ripest virtue kill,
And, where'er it comes to rest,
Though in some strict matron's breast,
Be she ne'er so seeming just,
I'll no shows of goodness trust.
For, if you but gold can bring,
Such are hired to any thing.

If you think she jealous be,
You are wide, for credit me,
Her strong'st jealousies nought are
Other than an honest care
Of her friends; and most can tell
Whoso wants that, loves not well.

Though some little fear she shows,
'Tis no more than love allows:
So the passion do not move her
Till she grieve or wrong her lover.
She may think he may do ill,
Though she'll not believe he will:
Nor can such a harmless thought
Blemish true affection ought;
Rather, whenas else it would

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Through security grow cold,
This her passion, keeping measure,
Strengthens love and sweetens pleasure.

Cruelty her soul detests,
For within her bosom rests
Noblest pity, usher'd by
An unequall'd courtesy,
And is griev'd at good men's moan
As the grief were all her own.

Just she is; so just, that I
Know she would not wrong a fly,
Or oppress the meanest thing
To be mistress to a king.

If our painters would include
Temperance and Fortitude
In one picture, she would fit
For the nonce to pattern it.
Patient as the lamb is she,
Harmless as the turtles be;
Yea, so largely stor'd with all
Which we mortals goodness call,
That if ever virtue were,
Or may be, incarnate here,
This is she, whose praises I
Offer to eternity.

She's no image trimmed about,
Fair within and foul without,
But a gem that doth appear
Like the diamond, everywhere
Sparkling rays of beauty forth,
All of such unblemish'd worth,

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That, were 't possible your eye
Might her inmost thoughts espy,
And behold the dimmest part
Of the lustre in her heart,
It would find that centre pass
What the superficies was.
And that every angle there
Like a diamond's inside were.

For, although that excellence
Pass the piercing'st eye of sense,
By their operations we
Guess at things that hidden be.
So, beyond our common reach,
Wise men can by reason teach
What the influences been
Of a planet when unseen,
Or the beauty of a star
That doth shine above us far.
So, by that wide-beaming light
Wherewith Titan courts our sight,
By his clothing of the earth,
By the woundrous, various birth
Of new creatures yearly bred
Through his heat, and nourished,
And by many virtues moe,
Which our senses reach unto,
We conclude they are not all
Which make fair that goodly ball.

Though she prize her honour more
Than the far-fetched precious store
Of the rich Molucchi, or

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All the wealth was traffick'd for,
Since our vessels passage knew
Unto Mexico, Peru,
Or those spacious kingdoms which
Make the proud Iberians rich,
'Tis not that uncertain blast
Keeps my mistress good or chaste.
She that but for honour's sake
Doth of ill a conscience make,
More in fear what rumour says,
Than in love to virtuous ways;
Though she seem'd more civil than
You have seen a courtesan
For an honour, and cries, oh, fie!
At each show of vanity;
Though she censure all that be
Not so foolish coy as she;
Though she with the Roman dame
Kill herself to purchase fame;
She would prostitute become
To the meanest, basest groom,
If so closely they may do it
As the world should never know it.

So at best those women prove
That for honour virtue love.
Give me her that goodness chooseth
For its own sake, and refuseth
To have greatest honours gain'd
With her secret conscience stain'd.
Give me her that would be poor,
Die disgrac'd, nay, thought a whore,

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And each time's reproach become,
Till the general day of doom,
Rather than consent to act
Pleasing sin, though by the fact,
With esteem of virtuous, she
Might the German Empress be.
Such my mistress is, and nought
Shall have power to change her thought;
Pleasures cannot tempt her eye
On their baits to glance awry,
For their good she still esteems
As it is, not as it seems,
And she takes no comfort in
Sweetest pleasure sour'd with sin.

By herself she hath such care,
That her actions decent are.
For, were she in secret hid,
None might see her what she did,
She would do as if for spies
Every wall were stuck with eyes,
And be chary of her honour
'Cause the heavens do look upon her.
And oh, what had power to move
Flames of lust, or wanton love,
So far to disparage us,
If we all were minded thus?
These are beauties that shall last
When the crimson blood shall waste,
And the shining hair wax grey,
Or with age be worn away.
These yield pleasures such as might

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Be remembered with delight,
When we gasp our latest breath
On the loathed bed of death.

Though discreetly speak she can,
She'll be silent rather than
Talk while others may be heard,
As if she did hate or fear'd
Their condition who will force
All to wait on their discourse.
Reason hath on her bestow'd
More of knowledge than she ow'd
To that sex, and grace with it
Doth aright her practice fit.

Yet hath fate so framed her,
As she may at sometime err:
But if e'er her judgment stray,
'Tis that other women may
Those much pleasing beauties see
Which in yielding natures be.
For since no perfection can
Here on earth be found in man,
There's more good in free submissions
Than there's ill in our transgressions.
Should you hear her once contend,
In discoursing, to defend,
As she can, a doubtful cause,
She such strong positions draws
From known truths, and doth apply
Reasons with such majesty,
As if she did undertake
From some oracle to speak:

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And you could not think what might
Breed more love or more delight.

Yet, if you should mark again
Her discreet behaviour when
She finds reason to repent
Some wrong-pleaded argument,
She so temperately lets all
Her mis-held opinions fall,
And can with such mildness bow,
As 'twill more enamour you
Than her knowledge: for there are
Pleasing sweets without compare
In such yieldings, which do prove
Wit, humility, and love.
Yea, by those mistakings you
Her condition so shall know,
And the nature of her mind
So undoubtedly shall find,
As will make her more endear'd
Than if she had never err'd.

Farther, that she nought may miss
Which worth praise in woman is,
This unto the rest I add:
If I wound or sickness had,
None should for my curing run,
No, not to Apollo's son;
She so well the virtue knows,
Of each needful herb that grows,
And so fitly can apply
Salves to every malady,
That if she no succour gave me,

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'Twere no means of art could save me.

Should my soul oppressed lie,
Sunk with grief and sorrow nigh,
She hath balm for minds distrest,
And could ease my pained breast.
She so well knows how to season
Passionate discourse with reason,
And knows how to sweeten it,
Both with so much love and wit,
That it shall prepare the sense
To give way with less offence.
For griev'd minds can ill abide
Counsel churlishly applied,
Which, instead of comfortings,
Desperation often brings.

But hark, nymphs, methinks I hear
Music sounding in mine ear.
'Tis a lute, and he's the best
For a voice in all the west
That doth touch it. And the swain
I would have you hear so fain,
That my song forbear will I,
To attend his melody.

Hither comes he day by day,
In these groves to sing and play.
And in yon close arbour he
Sitteth now, expecting me.
He so bashful is, that mute
Will his tongue be, and his lute,
Should he happen to espy
This unlook'd-for company.

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If you, therefore, list to hear him,
Let's with silence walk more near him.
'Twill be worth your pains, believe me,
If a voice content may give ye,
And await you shall not long,
For he now begins a song.