Wishes to His Supposed Mistress Till that divine 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 glistering shoe-tie: Something more than Taffeta 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 dressed, And can alone commend the rest A Face, made up Out of no other shop Than what Nature's white hand sets ope A Cheek, where youth And blood, with pen of truth, Write what their reader sweetly ru'th. A Cheek, where grows More than a morning rose, Which to no box its being owes. Lips, where all day A lover's kiss may play, Yet carry nothing thence away. 821 Looks, that oppress Their richest tires, but dress Themselves in simple nakedness. Eyes, that displace The neighbor diamond, and outface 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. Wishes to His Supposed Mistress Fears, fond and slight As the coy bride's, when night, 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. Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers; 'Bove all, nothing within that lowers. 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. 823 I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish-no more. Now, if Time knows That Her, whose radiant brows Her, whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise; Her, that dares be What these lines wish to see; I seek no further, it is She. 'Tis She, and here, Lo! I unclothe and clear My Wishes' cloudy character. May She enjoy it Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it! Such worth as this is Shall 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! Richard Crashaw [1613?-1649] SONG From "Abdelazer " LOVE in fantastic triumph sate Whilst bleeding hearts around him flowed, For whom fresh pains he did create And strange tyrannic power he showed: From thy bright eyes he took his fires, Which round about in sport he hurled; But 'twas from mine he took desires Enough t' undo the amorous world. Les Amours From me he took his sighs and tears, But my poor heart alone is harmed, 825 Aphra Behn [1640–1689] LES AMOURS SHE that I pursue, still flies me; She that can save me, must not do it; This is thy work, imperious Child, But, if irrevocable are Those keen shafts that wound us so, Let me prevail with thee thus far, That thou once more take thy bow; Wound her hard heart, and by my troth, I'll be content to take them both. Charles Cotton [1630–1687] |