TO THE QUEEN:

Decoration A

AN APOLOGIE FOR THE LENGTH OF THE FOLLOWING PANEGYRICK.[85]

When you are mistresse of the song,1Mighty queen, to thinke it long,Were treason 'gainst that majestyYour Vertue wears. Your modestyYet thinks it so. But ev'n that too5—Infinite, since part of you—New matter for our Muse supplies,And so allowes what it denies.Say then dread queen, how may we doeTo mediate 'twixt your self and you?10That so our sweetly temper'd songNor be too sort, nor seeme to[o] long.Needs must your noble prayses' strengthThat made it long excuse the length.

Decoration F

VPON HER NUMEROUS PROGENIE: A PANEGYRICK.[86]

Britain! the mighty Ocean's lovely bride!1Now stretch thy self, fair isle, and grow: spread wideThy bosome, and make roome. Thou art opprestWith thine own glories, and art strangely blestBeyond thy self: for (lo!) the gods, the gods5Come fast upon thee; and those glorious odsSwell thy full honours to a pitch so highAs sits above thy best capacitie.Are they not ods? and glorious? that to theeThose mighty genii throng, which well might be10Each one an Age's labour? that thy dayesAre gilded with the union of those rayesWhose each divided beam would be a sunneTo glad the sphere of any Nation?Sure, if for these thou mean'st to find a seat,15Th' hast need, O Britain, to be truly Great.And so thou art; their presence makes thee so:They are thy greatnesse. Gods, where-e're they go,Bring their Heav'n with them: their great footsteps placeAn everlasting smile upon the face20Of the glad Earth they tread on: while with theeThose beames that ampliate mortalitie,And teach it to expatiate and swellTo majestie and fulnesse, deign to dwell,Thou by thy self maist sit, (blest Isle) and see25How thy great mother Nature dotes on thee.Thee therefore from the rest apart she hurl'd,And seem'd to make an Isle, but made a World.Time yet hath dropt few plumes since Hope turn'd Joy,And took into his armes the princely boy,30Whose birth last blest the bed of his sweet mother,And bad us first salute our prince, a brother.

Time yet hath dropt few plumes since Hope turn'd Joy,And took into his armes the princely boy,30Whose birth last blest the bed of his sweet mother,And bad us first salute our prince, a brother.

Bright Charles! thou sweet dawn of a glorious Day!Centre of those thy grandsires (shall I say,Henry and James? or, Mars and Phœbus rather?35If this were Wisdome's god, that War's stern father;'Tis but the same is said: Henry and JamesAre Mars and Phœbus under diverse names):O thou full mixture of those mighty soulsWhose vast intelligences tun'd the poles40Of Peace and War; thou, for whose manly browBoth lawrels twine into one wreath, and wooTo be thy garland: see (sweet prince), O see,Thou, and the lovely hopes that smile in thee,Art ta'n out and transcrib'd by thy great mother:45See, see thy reall shadow; see thy brother,Thy little self in lesse: trace in these eyneThe beams that dance in those full stars of thine.From the same snowy alabaster rockThose hands and thine were hewn; those cherries mock50The corall of thy lips: thou wert of allThis well-wrought copie the fair principall.

Iustly, great Nature, didst thou brag, and tellHow ev'n th' hadst drawn that faithfull parallel,And matcht thy master-piece. O then go on,55Make such another sweet comparison.Seest thou that Marie there? O teach her motherTo shew her to her self in such another.Fellow this wonder too; nor let her shineAlone; light such another star, and twine60Their rosie beams, that so the Morn for oneVenus, may have a constellation.

These words scarce waken'd Heaven, when—lo!—our vowsSat crown'd upon the noble infant's brows.Th' art pair'd, sweet princesse: in this well-writ book65Read o're thy self; peruse each line, each look.And when th' hast summ'd up all those blooming blisses,Close up the book, and clasp it with thy kisses.So have I seen (to dresse their mistresse May)Two silken sister-flowers consult, and lay70Their bashfull cheeks together: newly theyPeep't from their buds, show'd like the garden's eyesScarce wak't: like was the crimson of their joyes;Like were the tears they wept, so like, that oneSeem'd but the other's kind reflexion.75

And now 'twere time to say, sweet queen, no more.Fair source of princes, is thy pretious storeNot yet exhaust? O no! Heavens have no bound,But in their infinite and endlesse roundEmbrace themselves. Our measure is not their's;80Nor may the pov'rtie of man's narrow prayersSpan their immensitie. More princes come:Rebellion, stand thou by; Mischief, make room:War, blood, and death—names all averse from Ioy—Heare this, we have another bright-ey'd boy:85That word's a warrant, by whose vertue IHave full authority to bid you dy.Dy, dy, foul misbegotten monsters! dy:Make haste away, or e'r the World's bright eyeBlush to a cloud of bloud. O farre from men90Fly hence, and in your Hyperborean denHide you for evermore, and murmure thereWhere none but Hell may heare, nor our soft aireShrink at the hatefull sound. Mean while we bearHigh as the brow of Heaven, the noble noise95And name of these our just and righteous joyes,Where Envie shall not reach them, nor those earesWhose tune keeps time to ought below the spheres.But thou, sweet supernumerary starre,Shine forth; nor fear the threats of boyst'rous Warre.100The face of things has therefore frown'd a whileOn purpose, that to thee and thy pure smileThe World might ow an universall calm;While thou, fair halcyon, on a sea of balmShalt flote; where while thou layst thy lovely head,105The angry billows shall but make thy bed:Storms, when they look on thee, shall straigt relent;And tempests, when they tast thy breath, repentTo whispers, soft as thine own slumbers be,Or souls of virgins which shall sigh for thee.110Shine then, sweet supernumerary starre,Nor feare the boysterous names of bloud and warre:Thy birth-day is their death's nativitie;They've here no other businesse but to die.

But stay; what glimpse was that? why blusht the Day?115Why ran the started aire trembling away?Who's this that comes circled in rayes that scornAcquaintance with the sun? what second mornAt midday opes a presence which Heaven's eyeStands off and points at? Is't some deity120Stept from her throne of starres, deignes to be seen?Is it some deity? or is't our queen?'Tis she, 'tis she: her awfull beauties chaseThe Day's abashèd glories, and in faceOf noon wear their own sunshine. O thou bright125Mistresse of wonders! Cynthia's is the Night;But thou at noon dost shine, and art all day(Nor does thy sun deny't) our Cynthia.Illustrious sweetnesse! in thy faithfull wombe,That nest of heroes, all our hopes find room.130Thou art the mother-phenix, and thy brestChast as that virgin honour of the East,But much more fruitfull is; nor does, as she,Deny to mighty Love, a deitie.Then let the Eastern world brag and be proud135Of one coy phenix, while we have a brood,A brood of phenixes: while we have brotherAnd sister-phenixes, and still the mother.And may we long! Long may'st thou live t'increaseThe house and family of phenixes.140Nor may the life that gives their eye-lids lightE're prove the dismall morning of thy night:Ne're may a birth of thine be bought so dearTo make his costly cradle of thy beer.O may'st thou thus make all the year thine own,145And see such names of joy sit white uponThe brow of every month! and when th' hast done,Mayst in a son of his find every sonRepeated, and that son still in another,And so in each child, often prove a mother.150Long may'st thou, laden with such clusters, leanVpon thy royall elm (fair vine!) and whenThe Heav'ns will stay no longer, may thy gloryAnd name dwell sweet in some eternall story!Pardon (bright Excellence,) an untun'd string,155That in thy eares thus keeps a murmuring.O speake a lowly Muse's pardon, speakeHer pardon, or her sentence; onely breakeThy silence. Speake, and she shall take from thenceNumbers, and sweetnesse, and an influence160Confessing thee. Or (if too long I stay,)O speake thou, and my pipe hath nought to say:For see Apollo all this while stands mute,Expecting by thy voice to tune his lute.But gods are gracious; and their altars make165Pretious the offrings that their altars take.Give then this rurall wreath fire from thine eyes,This rurall wreath dares be thy sacrifice.

Pardon (bright Excellence,) an untun'd string,155That in thy eares thus keeps a murmuring.O speake a lowly Muse's pardon, speakeHer pardon, or her sentence; onely breakeThy silence. Speake, and she shall take from thenceNumbers, and sweetnesse, and an influence160Confessing thee. Or (if too long I stay,)O speake thou, and my pipe hath nought to say:For see Apollo all this while stands mute,Expecting by thy voice to tune his lute.

But gods are gracious; and their altars make165Pretious the offrings that their altars take.Give then this rurall wreath fire from thine eyes,This rurall wreath dares be thy sacrifice.

NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS.

This poem was originally entitled (assupra) 'Upon the Duke of York's Birth.' As new children were born additions were made to it and the title altered. Cf. the Latin poem in our vol. ii.ad Reginam.

The children celebrated were the following: Charles James, born May 13, 1628, died the same day; the Queen's first child: Charles II., born May 29, 1630: James, who is placed before his sister Mary, who was older than he; born Oct. 14, 1633; afterwards James II.: Princess Mary, born Nov. 4, 1631, afterwards mother of William III.: Princess Elizabeth, born Dec. 28, 1635; died of grief at her father's tragical end, Sept. 8, 1650; was buried in the church at Newport, Isle of Wight, where her remains were found in 1793. Vaughan the Silurist has a fine poem to her memory (our edition, vol. ii. pp. 115-17): Anne, born March 17, 1636-7; she died Dec. 8, 1640 (Crashaw from first to last keeps Death out of his poem): Henry, born July 8, 1640, afterwards Duke of Gloucester and Earl of Cambridge. Henrietta Anne, born June 16, 1644, is not named.

The title in 1646 is 'Vpon the Duke of Yorke his Birth: a Panegyricke;' and so in 1670, which throughout agrees with that very imperfect text, except in one deplorable blunder of its own left uncorrected byTurnbull, as noted below. The heading in theSancroft ms.is 'A Panegyrick vpon the birth of the Duke of Yorke.R. Cr.'

Line 7, in 1646 'glories' for 'honours.' In theSancroft ms.line 8 reads 'As sitts alone ....'Line 15, ib. 'O' for 'Sure.'" 16, ib. 'Th' art.'" 29-32 restored from 1648. Not inSancroft ms." 33. These headings here and onward omitted hitherto." 34, in 1646 'great' for 'bright.'" 43, our text (1648) misprints 'owne' for 'one' of Voces Votivæ.Line 50, 1646 oddly misprints 'these Cherrimock.'Line 52, 1646, 'art' for 'wert.'" 54, ib. 'may'st' for 'did'st.'" 55, ib. 'th' art' for 'th' hadst.'" 64-70 restored from 1648. Not inSancroft ms." 74, 1646, 'pearls' for 'tears.' So theSancroft ms." 78-118, all these lines—most characteristic—restored from 1648.Turnbulloverlooked them. Not in theSancroft ms.Line 140, 1670 drops a line here, and thus confuses,

'A brood of phenixes, and still the mother:And may we long: long may'st thou live t' encreaseThe house,' &c.

Peregrine Phillipsin his selections fromCrashaw(1785), following the text of 1670, says in a foot-note, 'A line seems wanting, but is so in the original copy.'Turnbullfollows suit and says, 'Here a line seems deficient.' If either had consulted the 'original' editions, which both professed to know, it would have saved them from this and numerous kindred blunders.

Line 145, 1646, 'light' for 'life.'" 151, ib. 'that's.'" 170, ib. 'their' for 'the offerings.'

In line 27 'Thee therefore &c.' is a thought not unfrequent with the panegyrists of James.Ben Jonsonmakes use of it at least twice. In the Masque of Blackness we have,

'With that great name Britannia, this blest isleHath won her ancient dignity and style;A world divided from a world, and triedThe abstract of it, in his general pride.'

Shakespeareused the same thought more nobly when he made it the theme of that glorious outburst of patriotism from the lips of the dying Gaunt. G.

Decoration B

Decoration G

Take these, Time's tardy truants, sent by me1To be chastis'd (sweet friend) and chide by thee.Pale sons of our Pomona! whose wan cheekesHave spent the patience of expecting weekes,Yet are scarce ripe enough at best to show5The redd, but of the blush to thee they ow.By thy comparrison they shall put onMore Summer in their shame's reflection,Than ere the fruitfull Phœbus' flaming kissesKindled on their cold lips. O had my wishes10And the deare merits of your Muse, their due,The yeare had found some fruit early as you;Ripe as those rich composures Time computesBlossoms, but our blest tast confesses fruits.How does thy April-Autumne mocke these cold15Progressions 'twixt whose termes poor Time grows old!With thee alone he weares no beard, thy braineGives him the morning World's fresh gold againe.'Twas only Paradice, 'tis onely thou,Whose fruit and blossoms both blesse the same bough.20Proud in the patterne of thy pretious youth,Nature (methinks) might easily mend her growth.Could she in all her births but coppie thee,Into the publick yeares proficiencie,No fruit should have the face to smile on thee25(Young master of the World's maturitie)But such whose sun-borne beauties what they borrowOf beames to day, pay back again to morrow,Nor need be double-gilt. How then must thesePoor fruites looke pale at thy Hesperides!30Faine would I chide their slownesse, but in theirDefects I draw mine own dull character.Take them, and me in them acknowledging,How much my Summer waites upon thy Spring.

Decoration E

Decoration I

THE COMPLAINT OF THE FORSAKEN WIFE OF SAINTE ALEXIS.[88]

I late the Roman youth's loud prayse and pride,1Whom long none could obtain, though thousands try'd;Lo, here am left (alas!) For my lost mateT' embrace my teares, and kisse an vnkind fate.Sure in my early woes starres were at strife,5And try'd to make a widow ere a wife.Nor can I tell (and this new teares doth breed)In what strange path, my lord's fair footsteppes bleed.O knew I where he wander'd, I should seeSome solace in my sorrow's certainty:10I'd send my woes in words should weep for me,(Who knowes how powerfull well-writt praires would be.)Sending's too slow a word; myselfe would fly.Who knowes my own heart's woes so well as I?But how shall I steal hence? Alexis thou,15Ah thou thy self, alas! hast taught me how.Loue too that leads the way would lend the wingsTo bear me harmlesse through the hardest things.And where Loue lends the wing, and leads the way,What dangers can there be dare say me nay?20If I be shipwrack't, Loue shall teach to swimme:If drown'd, sweet is the death indur'd for him:The noted sea shall change his name with me,I'mongst the blest starres, a new name shall be.And sure where louers make their watry graues,25The weeping mariner will augment the waues.For who so hard, but passing by that wayWill take acquaintance of my woes, and sayHere 'twas the Roman maid found a hard fate,While through the World she sought her wandring mate30Here perish't she, poor heart; Heauns, be my vowesAs true to me, as she was to her spouse.O liue, so rare a loue! liue! and in theeThe too frail life of femal constancy.Farewell; and shine, fair soul, shine there aboue35Firm in thy crown, as here fast in thy loue.There thy lost fugitiue th' hast found at last:Be happy; and for euer hold him fast.

Though all the ioyes I had, fled hence with thee,1Vnkind! yet are my teares still true to me:I'm wedded o're again since thou art gone;Nor couldst thou, cruell, leaue me quite alone.Alexis' widdow now is Sorrow's wife,5With him shall I weep out my weary life.Wellcome, my sad-sweet mate! Now haue I gottAt last a constant Loue, that leaues me not:Firm he, as thou art false; nor need my cryesThus vex the Earth and teare the beauteous skyes.10For him, alas! n'ere shall I need to beTroublesom to the world thus as for thee:For thee I talk to trees; with silent grouesExpostulate my woes and much-wrong'd loues;Hills and relentlesse rockes, or if there be15Things that in hardnesse more allude to thee,To these I talk in teares, and tell my pain,And answer too for them in teares again.How oft haue I wept out the weary sun!My watry hour-glasse hath old Time's outrunne.20O I am learnèd grown: poor Loue and IHaue study'd ouer all Astrology;I'm perfect in Heaun's state; with euery starrMy skillfull greife is grown familiar.Rise, fairest of those fires; what'ere thou be25Whose rosy beam shall point my sun to me.Such as the sacred light that e'rst did bringThe Eastern princes to their infant King,O rise, pure lamp! and lend thy golden rayThat weary Loue at last may find his way.30

Rich, churlish Land! that hid'st so long in thee1My treasures; rich, alas! by robbing mee.Needs must my miseryes owe that man a spiteWho e're he be was the first wandring knight.O had he nere been at that cruell cost5Natvre's virginity had nere been lost;Seas had not bin rebuk't by sawcy oaresBut ly'n lockt vp safe in their sacred shores;Men had not spurn'd at mountaines; nor made warrsWith rocks, nor bold hands struck the World's strong barres,10Nor lost in too larg bounds, our little RomeFull sweetly with it selfe had dwell't at home.My poor Alexis, then, in peacefull lifeHad vnder some low roofe lou'd his plain wife;But now, ah me! from where he has no foes15He flyes; and into willfull exile goes.Cruell, return, O tell the reason whyThy dearest parents have deseru'd to dy.And I, what is my crime, I cannot tell,Vnlesse it be a crime t' haue lou'd too well.20If heates of holyer loue and high desire,Make bigge thy fair brest with immortall fire,What needes my virgin lord fly thus from me,Who only wish his virgin wife to be?Witnesse, chast Heauns! no happyer vowes I know25Then to a virgin grave vntouch't to goe.Loue's truest knott by Venus is not ty'd,Nor doe embraces onely make a bride.The queen of angels (and men chast as you)Was maiden-wife and maiden-mother too.30Cecilia, glory of her name and blood,With happy gain her maiden-vowes made good:The lusty bridegroom made approach; young manTake heed (said she) take heed, Valerian!My bosome's guard, a spirit great and strong,35Stands arm'd, to sheild me from all wanton wrong;My chastity is sacred; and my SleepWakefull, her dear vowes vndefil'd to keep.Pallas beares armes, forsooth; and should there beNo fortresse built for true Virginity?40No gaping Gorgon, this: none, like the restOf your learn'd lyes. Here you'll find no such iest.I'm your's: O were my God, my Christ so too,I'd know no name of Loue on Earth but you.He yeilds, and straight baptis'd, obtains the grace45To gaze on the fair souldier's glorious face.Both mixt at last their blood in one rich bedOf rosy martyrdome, twice married.O burn our Hymen bright in such high flame,Thy torch, terrestriall Loue, haue here no name.50How sweet the mutuall yoke of man and wife,When holy fires maintain Loue's heaunly life!But I (so help me Heaun my hopes to see)When thousands sought my loue, lou'd none but thee.Still, as their vain teares my firm vowes did try,55Alexis, he alone is mine (said I).Half true, alas! half false, proues that poor line,Alexis is alone; but is not mine.

NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS.

The heading in 1648 omits 'Sainte.' These variations from 1648 are interesting:

1st Elegy: Line 9, 'would' for 'should.'Line 17, our text (1652) drops 'way' inadvertently.Turnbulltinkers it by reading 'thee' for 'the,' instead of collating the texts.Line 23, 'its' for 'his.'" 25, 'when' for 'where.'" 37, I have adopted 'th'' for 'thou' of our text (1652).2d Elegy: Line 1, our text (1652) misspells 'fleed.'Line 3, ib. misprints 'I' am.'" 10, ib. drops 'beauteous' inadvertently.Turnbull, for a wonder, wakes up here to notice a deficient word; but again, instead of collating his texts, inserts without authority 'lofty.' Had he turned to 1648 edition, he would have found 'beauteous.'Line 20, I have adopted 'Time's' for 'Time.'" 23, as in line 17 in 1st Elegy." 30, a reference to the 'Love will find out the way,' in the old song 'Over the mountain.' 'Weary' is misprinted 'Wary' in 1670.3d Elegy: Line 7, 'with' for 'by.'Line 17, our text (1652) misprints 'Or' for 'O.'" 20, I accept 't'' for 'to.'" 29, 'The Blessed Virgin' for 'The queen of angels.'" 41, 'facing' for 'gaping.'" 43, as in line 17 in 1st Elegy." 50, 'hath' for 'haue.'" 51, 'sweet's' for 'sweet.'" 54, our text (1652) misprints 'thousand.' G.

NOTE.

See Note on page 184 for reference on the title here and elsewhere of 'Airelles.' G.

Decoration C

Sound forth, cœlestiall organs, let heauen's quireRavish the dancing orbes, make them mount higherWith nimble capers, & force Atlas treadVpon his tiptoes, e're his siluer headShall kisse his golden curthen. Thou glad Isle,That swim'st as deepe in joy, as seas, now smile;Lett not thy weighty glories, this full tideOf blisse, debase thee; but with a just prideSwell: swell to such an height, that thou maist vyeWith heauen itselfe for stately majesty.Doe not deceiue mee, eyes: doe I not seeIn this blest earth heauen's bright epitome,Circled with pure refinèd glory? heereI view a rising sunne in this our sphere,Whose blazing beames, maugre the blackest night,And mists of greife, dare force a joyfull light.The gold, in wchhe flames, does well præsageA precious season, & a golden age.Doe I not see joy keepe his revels now,And sitt triumphing in each cheerfull brow?Vnmixt felicity with siluer wingsBroodeth this sacred place: hither Peace bringsThe choicest of her oliue-crownes, & praiesTo haue them guilded with his courteous raies.Doe I not see a Cynthia, who mayAbash the purest beauties of the day?To whom heauen's lampes often in silent nightSteale from their stations to repaire their light.Doe I not see a constellation,Each little beame of wchwould make a sunne?I meane those three great starres, who well may scornAcquaintance with the vsher of the morne.To gaze vpon such starres each humble eyeWould be ambitious of astronomieWho would not be a phœnix, & aspireTo sacrifice himselfe in such sweet fire?Shine forth, ye flaming sparkes of Deity,Yee perfect emblemes of divinity.Fixt in your spheres of glory, shed from thence,The treasures of our liues, your influence,For if you sett, who may not justly feare,The world will be one ocean, one great teare.

Strange metamorphosis! It was but nowThe sullen heauen had vail'd its mournfull browWith a black maske: the clouds with child by GreifeTraueld th' Olympian plaines to find releife.But at the last (having not soe much powerAs to refraine) brought forth a costly showerOf pearly drops, & sent her numerous birth(As tokens of her greife) vnto the Earth.Alas, the Earth, quick drunke with teares, had reel'dFrom of her center, had not Ioue vpheldThe staggering lumpe: each eye spent all its store,As if heereafter they would weepe noe more:Streight from this sea of teares there does appeareFull glory naming in her owne free sphere.Amazèd Sol throwes of his mournfull weeds,Speedily harnessing his fiery steeds,Vp to Olympus' stately topp he hies,From whence his glorious rivall hee espies.Then wondring starts, & had the curteous nightWithheld her vaile, h' had forfeited his sight.The joy full sphæres with a delicious soundAfright th' amazèd aire, and dance a roundTo their owne musick, nor (untill they seeThis glorious Phœbus sett) will quiet bee.Each aery Siren now hath gott her song,To whom the merry lambes doe tripp alongThe laughing meades, as joy full to beholdTheir winter coates couer'd with naming gold.Such was the brightnesse of this Northerne starre,It made the virgin phœnix come from farreTo be repair'd: hither she did resort,Thinking her father had remou'd his Court.The lustre of his face did shine soe bright,That Rome's bold egles now were blinded quite;The radiant darts shott from his sparkling eyes,Made euery mortall gladly sacrificeA heart burning in loue; all did adoreThis rising sunne; their faces nothing wore,But smiles, and ruddy joyes, and at this dayAll melancholy clouds vanisht away.

Bright starre of Majesty, oh shedd on mee,A precious influence, as sweet as thee.That with each word, my loaden pen letts fall,The fragrant Spring may be perfum'd withall.That Sol from them may suck an honied shower,To glutt the stomack of his darling flower.With such a sugred livery made fine,They shall proclaime to all, that they are thine.Lett none dare speake of thee, but such as thenceExtracted haue a balmy eloquence.But then, alas, my heart! oh how shall ICure thee of thy delightfull tympanie?I cannot hold; such a spring-tide of joyMust haue a passage, or 'twill force a way.Yet shall my loyall tongue keepe this com̄and:But giue me leaue to ease it with my hand.And though these humble lines soare not soe high,As is thy birth; yet from thy flaming eyeDrop downe one sparke of glory, & they'l proueA præsent worthy of Apollo's loue.My quill to thee may not præsume to sing:Lett th' hallowed plume of a seraphick wingBee consecrated to this worke, while IChant to my selfe with rustick melodie.Rich, liberall heauen, what hath yortreasure storeOf such bright angells, that you giue vs more?Had you, like our great sunne, stampèd but oneFor earth, t' had beene an ample portion.Had you but drawne one liuely coppy forth,That might interpret our faire Cynthia's worth,Y' had done enough to make the lazy groundDance, like the nimble spheres, a joyfull round.But such is the cœlestiall excellence,That in the princely patterne shines, from whenceThe rest pourtraicted are, that 'tis noe paineTo ravish heauen to limbe them o're againe.Wittnesse this mapp of beauty; euery partOf wchdoth show the quintessence of art.See! nothing's vulgar, every atome heereSpeakes the great wisdome of th' artificer.Poore Earth hath not enough perfection,To shaddow forth th' admirèd paragon.Those sparkling twinnes of light should I now stileRich diamonds, sett in a pure siluer foyle;Or call her cheeke a bed of new-blowne roses;And say that ivory her front composes;Or should I say, that with a scarlet waueThose plumpe soft rubies had bin drest soe braue;Or that the dying lilly did bestowVpon her neck the whitest of his snow;Or that the purple violets did laceThat hand of milky downe; all these are base;Her glories I should dimme with things soe grosse,And foule the cleare text with a muddy glosse.Goe on then, Heauen, & limbe forth such another,Draw to this sister miracle a brother;Compile a first glorious epitomeOf heauen, & Earth, & of all raritie;And sett it forth in the same happy place,And I'le not blurre it with my paraphrase.

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