Wishes to His Supposed Mistress
WHOE’ER she be,That not impossible SheThat shall command my heart and me:
Where’er she he,Locked up from mortal eyeIn shady leaves of destiny:
Till that ripe birthOf studied Fate stand forth,And teach her fair steps tread our earth:
Till that divineIdea take a shrineOf crystal flesh, through which to shine:
Meet you her, my Wishes,Bespeak her to my blisses,And be ye called, my absent kisses.
I wish her beautyThat owes not all its dutyTo gaudy tire, or glist’ring shoe-tie.
Something more thanTaffata or tissue can,Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
More than the spoilOf shop, or silkworm’s toil,Or a bought blush, or a set smile.
A face that’s bestBy its own beauty drest,And can alone commend the rest.
A cheek where youthAnd blood, with pen of truth,Write what the reader sweetly rueth.
A cheek where growsMore than a morning rose,Which to no box his being owes.
Lips where all dayA lover’s kiss may play,Yet carry nothing thence away.
Looks that oppressTheir richest tires, but dressAnd clothe their simple nakedness.
Eyes that displaceTheir neighbour diamond, and out-faceThat sunshine by their own sweet grace.
Tresses that wearJewels, but to declareHow much themselves more precious are;
Whose native rayCan tame the wanton dayOf gems that in their bright shades play.
Each ruby there,Or pearl that dare appear,Be its own blush, be its own tear.
A well-tamed heart,For whose more noble smartLove may be long choosing a dart.
Eyes that bestowFull quivers on love’s bow,Yet pay less arrows than they owe.
Smiles that can warmThe blood, yet teach a charm,That chastity shall take no harm.
Blushes that binThe burnish of no sin,Nor flames of aught too hot within.
Joys that confess,Virtue their mistress,And have no other head to dress.
Fears fond and slightAs the coy bride’s, when nightFirst does the longing lover right.
Tears quickly fled,And vain, as those are shedFor a dying maidenhead.
Soft silken hours,Open suns, shady bowers;’Bove all, nothing within that lowers.
Days that need borrowNo part of their good-morrowFrom a fore-spent night of sorrow.
Days that in spiteOf darkness, by the lightOf a clear mind, are day all night.
Nights, sweet as they,Made short by lovers’ play,Yet long by the absence of the day.
Life, that dares sendA challenge to his end,And when it comes, say, Welcome, friend!
Sydneian showersOf sweet discourse, whose powersCan crown old winter’s head with flowers.
Whate’er delightCan make day’s forehead bright,Or give down to the wings of night.
In her whole frame,Have Nature all the name,Art and ornament the shame.
Her flattery,Picture and poesy,Her counsel her own virtue be.
I wish her storeOf worth may leave her poorOf wishes; and I wish—no more.
Now, if Time knowsThat Her, whose radiant browsWeave them a garland of my vows;
Her whose just baysMy future hopes can raise,A trophy to her present praise;
Her that dares heWhat these lines wish to see;I seek no further, it is She.
’Tis She, and here,Lo! I unclothe and clearMy wishes’ cloudy character.
May she enjoy itWhose merit dare apply it,But modesty dares still deny it!
Such worth as this isShall fix my flying wishes,And determine them to kisses.
Let her full glory,My fancies, fly before ye;Be ye my fictions:—but her story.