The Fourth Volume of the Writings Of the Author of the London-Spy Prose and Verse [by Edward Ward] |
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The Beau's Panegyrick upon his Beautiful Mistress:
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 | The Fourth Volume of the Writings Of the Author of the London-Spy |  |
The Beau's Panegyrick upon his Beautiful Mistress:
Or, Love without Matrimony.
'Tis true Almira, you're as soft and fair,
As Mortals can suppose the Angels are.
The Horned Queen that rules the Dusky Night,
In a clear Winter, cannot shine more bright.
Each sparkling Eye does, to our Wonder, share
More Glory than the most Refulgent Star.
Each tender Lip like the Carnation glows,
And your smooth Cheeks out-blush the Damask Rose.
Those Iv'ry Keys that modulate your Speech,
Are whiter far, than Dover's Chalky Beech.
And on that Charming Instrument, your Tongue,
Sweet Musick, and soft Eloquence are hung:
Such that Amyhion's Harp could ne'r out-do,
Or Tully in his Learn'd Orations shew.
Your lofty Forehead gives an awful Grace,
To all the humbler Features of your Face;
Whilst Cupids lurk beneath your Sable Brows,
And chuse the bending Arches for their Bows.
Your silky Locks around your Temples fly,
And sporting with the Wind dishrevel'd lie.
Whilst here and there your Alabaster Skin
Peeps through the waving Curls, and shines between,
As the bright Sun that warms us from above,
Darts through the Branches of a shady Grove.
Your Shape, your Wit, and your engaging Air,
Your Breading and the Character you bear,
Your snowy Breasts that boil above your Stays,
And Maiden Virtues that deserve such Praise,
Are all inviting Graces 'tis allow'd,
Enough to make the meekest Virgin Proud.
But still you're Woman, that deceitful thing,
Whose Beauty's arm'd with a tormenting Sting;
Fill'd like Pandora's pois'nous Box within,
With Miseries and Plagues that lurk unseen:
Till he that breaks you open, finds too late
His wish'd for Blessing is become his Fate.
And that the only Curses which he fear'd,
Lay hid beneath that Beauty he rever'd:
What signifies the Fairness of your Skin,
When all your Sex's Vices lodge within:
For Women differ but in Shape and Name,
Tho fair without, within they're all the same;
Proud, Fickle, Lustful, Treacherous and Base,
Led by no Reason, bounded by no Grace,
Curs'd with the Plague of an unruly Tongue,
Taught to be subtle Hypocrites when young,
By their own Mothers, that the Maid may hide
Those Faults, she soon discovers when a Bride.
As Mortals can suppose the Angels are.
The Horned Queen that rules the Dusky Night,
In a clear Winter, cannot shine more bright.
Each sparkling Eye does, to our Wonder, share
More Glory than the most Refulgent Star.
Each tender Lip like the Carnation glows,
And your smooth Cheeks out-blush the Damask Rose.
Those Iv'ry Keys that modulate your Speech,
Are whiter far, than Dover's Chalky Beech.
And on that Charming Instrument, your Tongue,
Sweet Musick, and soft Eloquence are hung:
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Or Tully in his Learn'd Orations shew.
Your lofty Forehead gives an awful Grace,
To all the humbler Features of your Face;
Whilst Cupids lurk beneath your Sable Brows,
And chuse the bending Arches for their Bows.
Your silky Locks around your Temples fly,
And sporting with the Wind dishrevel'd lie.
Whilst here and there your Alabaster Skin
Peeps through the waving Curls, and shines between,
As the bright Sun that warms us from above,
Darts through the Branches of a shady Grove.
Your Shape, your Wit, and your engaging Air,
Your Breading and the Character you bear,
Your snowy Breasts that boil above your Stays,
And Maiden Virtues that deserve such Praise,
Are all inviting Graces 'tis allow'd,
Enough to make the meekest Virgin Proud.
But still you're Woman, that deceitful thing,
Whose Beauty's arm'd with a tormenting Sting;
Fill'd like Pandora's pois'nous Box within,
With Miseries and Plagues that lurk unseen:
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His wish'd for Blessing is become his Fate.
And that the only Curses which he fear'd,
Lay hid beneath that Beauty he rever'd:
What signifies the Fairness of your Skin,
When all your Sex's Vices lodge within:
For Women differ but in Shape and Name,
Tho fair without, within they're all the same;
Proud, Fickle, Lustful, Treacherous and Base,
Led by no Reason, bounded by no Grace,
Curs'd with the Plague of an unruly Tongue,
Taught to be subtle Hypocrites when young,
By their own Mothers, that the Maid may hide
Those Faults, she soon discovers when a Bride.
Therefore Almira I'm alass too Wise,
To be your Slave, tho I adore your Eyes.
For Woman, tho an Angel when a Maid,
Always turns Devil in a Marriage-Bed,
Then, who that [illeg.] the Freedom of his Life,
Would [illeg.] it or [illeg.] prating thing a Wife?
Not Strepbon, if your Charms must purchas'd be
At no less Price than that of Liberty.
I shall no Chapman for your Beauty prove.
I cannot Marry tho I vow I Love.
Therefore, my Dear, if I have won your Heart,
Dally no more, but play the Woman's part.
As such I'll Love you, if you dare be free;
But if you think to Wed, no Wife for me.
To be your Slave, tho I adore your Eyes.
For Woman, tho an Angel when a Maid,
Always turns Devil in a Marriage-Bed,
Then, who that [illeg.] the Freedom of his Life,
Would [illeg.] it or [illeg.] prating thing a Wife?
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At no less Price than that of Liberty.
I shall no Chapman for your Beauty prove.
I cannot Marry tho I vow I Love.
Therefore, my Dear, if I have won your Heart,
Dally no more, but play the Woman's part.
As such I'll Love you, if you dare be free;
But if you think to Wed, no Wife for me.
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