University of Virginia Library

XXI. A PARADOX OF A PAINTED FACE.

Not kisse! by Jouve I must, and make impression!
As longe as Cupid dares to hould his scessyoun
Within my flesh and blood, our kisses shall
Out-minvte tyme, and without number fall.
Doe I not know these balls of blushinge redd
That on thy cheeks thus amorously are spread,
Thy snowie necke, those vaines vpon thy browe
Which with their azure twinklinge sweetly bowe,
Are artificiall, borrowed, and no more thyne owne
Then chaynes which on St. George's day are showne
Are propper to their wearers; yet for this
I idole thee, and begge a luschyous kisse.
The fucus and ceruse, which on thy face
Thy cuninge hand layes on to add new grace,
Deceive me with such pleasinge fraud, that I
Fynd in thy art, what can in Nature lye.
Much like a paynter that vpon some wall
On which the cadent sun-beames vse to fall
Paynts with such art a guylded butterflie
That sillie maids with slowe-mov'd fingers trie
To catch it, and then blush at their mistake,
Yet of this painted flie most reckoninge make:
Such is our state, since what we looke vpon
Is nought but colour and proportionn.
Take we a face as full of frawde and lyes
As gipsies in your common lottereyes,
That is more false and more sophisticate
Then are saints' reliques, or a man of state;
Yet such beinge glosèd by the sleight of arte
Gaine admiration, wininge many a hart.
Put case there be a difference in the mold,
Yet may thy Venus be more choice, and hold
A dearer treasure. Oftentimes we see
Rich Candyan wynes in wooden bowles to bee;
The oderiferous civett doth not lye
Within the pretious muscatt's eare or eye,
But in a baser place; for prudent Nature
In drawinge us of various formes and feature,
Gives from ye envious shopp of her large treasure
To faire partes comlynesse, to baser pleasure.
The fairest flowres that in ye Springe do grow
Are not soe much for vse, as for the showe;
As lyllies, hyacinths, and your gorgious byrth
Of all pied-flowers, which dyaper the Earth,
Please more with their discoulered purple traine
Then holsome pot-hearbs which for vse remayne.
Shall I a gawdie-speckled serpent kisse
For that the colours which he wears be his?
A perfum'd cordevant who will not weare
Because ye sent is borrowed otherwhere?
The robes and vestments which do grace vs all
Are not our owne, but adventitiall.
Tyme rifles Nature's bewtie, but slie Art
Repaires by cuninge this decayinge part;
Fills here a wrinckle and there purls a vayne,
And with a nymble hand runs ore againe
The breaches dented in by th'arme of Tyme,
And makes deformitie to be noe cryme;
As when great men be grypt by sicknes' hand
Industrious phisick pregnantly doth stand
To patch vp fowle diseases, and doth strive
To keepe their totteringe carcasses alive.
Bewtie's a candle-light, which euery puffe
Blowes out, and leaves naught but a stinking snuff
To fill our nostrills with. This boldly thinke,
The clearest candle makes ye greatest stinke;
As your pure food and cleanest nutriment
Getts the most hott and most strong excrement.
Why hang we then on things so apt to varye,
So fleetinge, brittle, and so temporarie,
That agues, coughs, the tooth-ake, or catharr
(Slight howses of diseases) spoyle and marr?
But when old age their bewty hath in chace,
And ploughes vpp furrowes in their once smooth face,
Then they become forsaken, and doe shewe
Like stately abbies ruyn'd longe agoe.
Nature but gives the modell and first draught
Of faire perfection, which by Art is taught
To make itselfe a compleat forme and birth
Soe, stands a coppie to these shapes on Earth.
Jove grant me then a repairable face,
Which whil'st that coulors are, can want noe grace;
Pigmalion's painted statue I wold loue,
Soe it were warme or soft, or could but move.