Lapas attēli

Expecting fire from your eyes,
To kindle this his sacrifice.

When your hands untie these strings,
Think you've an angel by the wings;
One that gladly will be nigh

To wait upon each morning sigh,
To flutter in the balmy air

Of your well perfumed prayer.

These white plumes of his he'll lend you,
Which every day to heaven will send you,
To take acquaintance of the sphere,
And all the smooth-faced kindred there.
And though Herbert's name do owe
These devotions, fairest, know
That while I lay them on the shrine
Of your white hand, they are mine.


WHOE'ER she be,

That not impossible She

That shall command my heart and me:

Where'er she lie,

Locked up from mortal eye

In shady leaves of destiny:

Till that ripe birth

Of studied Fate stand forth,

And teach her fair steps tread our earth:

Till that divine

Idea take a shrine

Of 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 beauty

That owes not all its duty

To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie.

Something more than

Taffata or tissue can,

Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

More than the spoil

Of shop, or silkworm's toil,

Or a bought blush, or a set smile.

A face that's best

By its own beauty drest,

And can alone commend the rest.

A cheek where youth

And blood, with pen of truth,

Write what the reader sweetly rueth.

A cheek where grows

More than a morning rose,

Which to no box his being owes.

Lips where all day

A lover's kiss may play,

Yet carry nothing thence away.

Looks that oppress

Their richest tires, but dress

And clothe their simple nakedness.

Eyes that displace

Their neighbour diamond, and out-face

That sunshine by their own sweet grace.

Tresses that wear

Jewels, but to declare

How much themselves more precious are;

Whose native ray

Can tame the wanton day

Of 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 smart

Love may be long choosing a dart.

Eyes that bestow

Full quivers on love's bow,

Yet pay less arrows than they owe.

Smiles that can warm

The blood, yet teach a charm,

That chastity shall take no harm.

Blushes that bin

The 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 slight

As the coy bride's, when night
First does the longing lover right.

Tears quickly fled,

And vain, as those are shed

For a dying maidenhead.

Soft silken hours,

Open suns, shady bowers;

'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.

Days that need borrow

No part of their good-morrow

From a fore-spent night of sorrow.

Days that in spite

Of darkness, by the light

Of 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 send

A challenge to his end,

And when it comes, say, Welcome, friend!

Sydneian showers

Of sweet discourse, whose powers

Can crown old winter's head with flowers.

Whate'er delight

Can 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 store

Of worth may leave her poor

Of wishes; and I wish

Now, if Time knows

no more.

That Her, whose radiant brows

Weave them a garland of my vows;

Her whose just bays

My future hopes can raise,

A trophy to her present praise;

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