80

The True Beauty

And what are cheeks but ensigns oft
That wave hot youth to fields of blood?
Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,
Do Greece or Ilium any good?

Eyes can with baleful ardour burn;

Poison can breathe, than erst perfumed;
There's many a white hand holds an urn
With lovers' hearts to dust consumed.
For crystal brows there's nought wichin;
They are but empty cells for pride;
He who the Syren's hair would win
Is mostly strangled in the tide.
Give me, instead of Beauty's bust,
A tender heart, a loyal mind
Which with temptation I would trust,
Yet never link'd with error find,—

One in whose gentle bosom I

Could

pour my secret heart of woes, Like the case-burthen'd honey-fly

That hides his murmurs in the rose

My earthly Comforter! whose love
So indefeasible might be

That, when my spirit wonn'd above
Hers could not stay, for sympathy.

ANON.1

LXXXVII

THE TRUE BEAUTY

He that loves a rosy cheek
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires;

1 By GEORGE DARLEY (1795-1846).

To Dianeme

As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,

Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying_fires :— Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.

81

T. CAREW

LXXXVIII

TO DIANEME

free:

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes
Which starlike sparkle in their skies;
Nor be you proud, that you can see
All hearts your captives; yours yet
Be you not proud of that rich hair
Which wantons with the lovesick air;
Whenas that ruby which you wear,
Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,
Will last to be a precious stone
When all your world of beauty's gone.

LXXXIX

Go, lovely Rose !

R. HERRICK

Tell her, that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young

And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there

It could not wither'd be ;

But thou thereon didst only breathe

And sent'st it back to me;

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself but thee!

B. JONSON

The Poetry of Dress

83

XCI

CHERRY-RIPE

There is a garden in her face

Where roses and white lilies blow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow :
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still;

Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill

All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!

ANON.

XCI

THE POETRY OF DRESS

I

A sweet disorder in the dress

Kindles in clothes a wantonness:—
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distractión,—

An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher,-
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly,—

Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free;
O how that glittering taketh me!

R. HERRICK

XCIV

3

My Love in her attire doth shew her wit,
It doth so well become her:
For every season she hath dressings fit,

For Winter, Spring, and Summer.

No beauty she doth miss

When all her robes are on:
But Beauty's self she is

When all her robes are gone.

ANON.