CELIAS TRIUMPH. And from her arch'd brows, such a grace Sheds itself through the face, Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before the soil hath smutch'd it 1 Or swan's down ever 1 Or the 'nard in the fire 1 Ben Jonson. STILL TO BE NEAT. Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed: Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face, STILL TO BE NEAT. Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: Hen J On Son. TO THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA. You common people of the skies! You curious chanters of the wood Thinking your voices understood By your weak accents! what's your praise You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year, So, when my mistress shall be seen By virtue first, then choice, a Queen! Str Henry Wottox. |