The Description of a Woman

Whose head, befringed with bescattered tresses,Shows like Apollo's when the morn he dresses,Or like Aurora when with pearl she setsHer long, dishevell'd, rose-crown'd trammelets:Her forehead smooth, full, polish'd, bright and highBears in itself a graceful majesty,Under the which two crawling eyebrows twineLike to the tendrils of a flatt'ring vine,Under whose shade two starry sparkling eyesAre beautifi'd with fair fring'd canopies.Her comely nose, with uniformal grace,Like purest white, stands in the middle place,Parting the pair, as we may well suppose.Each cheek resembling still a damask rose,Which like a garden manifestly showHow roses, lilies, and carnations grow,Which sweetly mixed both with white and red,Like rose leaves, white and red, seem mingled.Then nature for a sweet allurement setsTwo smelling, swelling, bashful cherrylets,The which with ruby redness being tipp'd,Do speak a virgin, merry, cherry-lipp'd.Over the which a neat, sweet skin is drawn,Which makes them show like roses under lawn:These be the ruby portals, and divine,Which ope themselves to show a holy shrineWhose breath is rich perfume, that to the senseSmells like the burn'd Sabean frankincense:In which the tongue, though but a member small,Stands guarded with a rosy-hilly wall;And her white teeth, which in the gums are setLike pearl and gold, make one rich cabinet.Next doth her chin with dimpled beauty striveFor his white, plump, and smooth prerogative;At whose fair top, to please the sight, there growsThe fairest image of a blushing rose,Mov'd by the chin, whose motion causeth this,That both her lips do part, do meet, do kiss;Her ears, which like two labyrinths are plac'dOn either side, with rich rare jewels grac'd,Moving a question whether that by themThe gem is grac'd, or they grac'd by the gem.But the foundation of the architectIs the swan-staining, fair, rare, stately neckWhich with ambitious humbleness stands under,Bearing aloft this rich, round world of wonder.Her breast, a place for beauty's throne most fit,Bears up two globes where love and pleasure sit,Which, headed with two rich, round rubies, showLike wanton rosebuds growing out of snow;And in the milky valley that's betweenSits Cupid, kissing of his mother queen,Fingering the paps that feel like sieved silk,And press'd a little they will weep pure milk.Then comes the belly, seated next below,Like a fair mountain in Riphean snow,Where Nature, in a whiteness without spot,Hath in the middle tied a Gordian knot.Now love invites me to survey her thighs,Swelling in likeness like two crystal skies,Which to the knees by Nature fastened on,Derive their ever well 'greed motion.Her legs with two clear calves, like silver tri'd,Kindly swell up with little pretty pride,Leaving a distance for the comely smallTo beautify the leg and foot withal.Then lowly, yet most lovely stand the feet,Round, short and clear, like pounded spices sweet,And whatsoever thing they tread uponThey make it scent like bruised cinnamon.The lovely shoulders now allure the eyeTo see two tablets of pure ivoryFrom which two arms like branches seem to spreadWith tender rind and silver coloured,With little hands and fingers long and smallTo grace a lute, a viol, virginal.In length each finger doth his next excel,Each richly headed with a pearly shell.Thus every part in contrarietyMeet in the whole and make a harmony,As divers strings do singly disagree,But form'd by number make sweet melody.

Ere I go hence and be no moreSeen to the world, I'll give the scoreI owe unto a female child,And that is this, a verse enstyledMy daughter's dowry; having which,I'll leave thee then completely rich.Instead of gold, pearl, rubies, bondsLong forfeit, pawned diamondsOr antique pledges, house or land,I give thee this that shall withstandThe blow of ruin and of chance.These hurt not thine inheritance,For 'tis fee simple and no rentThou fortune ow'st for tenement.However after times will praise,This portion, my prophetic bays,Cannot deliver up to th' rust,Yet I keep peaceful in my dust.As for thy birth and better seeds(Those which must grow to virtuous deeds),Thou didst derive from that old stem(Love and mercy cherish them),Which like a vestal virgin plyWith holy fire lest that it die.Grow up with milder laws to knowAt what time to say aye or no;Let manners teach thee where to beMore comely flowing, where less free.These bring thy husband, like to thoseOld coins and medals we exposeTo th' show, but never part with. Next,As in a more conspicuous text,Thy forehead, let therein be sign'dThe maiden candour of thy mind;And under it two chaste-born spiesTo bar out bold adulteries,For through these optics fly the dartsOf lust which set on fire our hearts.On either side of these quick earsThere must be plac'd, for seasoned fearsWhich sweeten love, yet ne'er come nighThe plague of wilder jealousy.Then let each cheek of thine enticeHis soul as to a bed of spiceWhere he may roll and lose his sense,As in a bed of frankincense.A lip enkindled with that coalWith which love chafes and warms the soul,Bring to him next, and in it showLove's cherries from such fires growAnd have their harvest, which must standThe gathering of the lip, not hand;Then unto these be it thy careTo clothe thy words in gentle air,That smooth as oil, sweet, soft and cleanAs is the childish bloom of bean,They may fall down and stroke, as theBeams of the sun the peaceful sea.With hands as smooth as mercy's bringHim for his better cherishing,That when thou dost his neck ensnare,Or with thy wrist, or flattering hair,He may, a prisoner, there descryBondage more loved than liberty.A nature so well formed, so wroughtTo calm and tempest, let be broughtWith thee, that should he but inclineTo roughness, clasp him like a vine,Or like as wool meets steel, give wayUnto the passion, not to stay;Wrath, if resisted, over-boils,If not, it dies or else recoils.And lastly, see you bring to himSomewhat peculiar to each limb;And I charge thee to be knownBy n'other face but by thine own.Let it in love's name be kept sleek,Yet to be found when he shall seekIt, and not instead of saintGive up his worth unto the paint;For, trust me, girl, she over-doesWho by a double proxy woos.But lest I should forget his bed,Be sure thou bring a maidenhead.That is a margarite, which lost,Thou bring'st unto his bed a frostOr a cold poison, which his bloodBenumbs like the forgetful flood.Now for some jewels to supplyThe want of earrings' braveryFor public eyes; take only theseNe'er travelled for beyond the seas;They're nobly home-bred, yet have priceBeyond the far-fet merchandise:Obedience, wise distrust, peace, shyDistance and sweet urbanity;Safe modesty, lov'd patience, fearOf offending, temperance, dearConstancy, bashfulness and allThe virtues less or cardinal,Take with my blessing, and go forthEnjewelled with thy native worth.And now if there a man be foundThat looks for such prepared ground,Let him, but with indifferent skill,So good a soil bestock and till;He may ere long have such a wifeNourish in's breast a tree of life.

I have beheld two lovers in a nightHatched o'er with moonshine from their stolen delight(When this to that, and that to this, had givenA kiss to such a jewel of the heaven,Or while that each from other's breath did drinkHealth to the rose, the violet, or pink),Call'd on the sudden by the jealous mother,Some stricter mistress or suspicious other,Urging divorcement (worse than death to these)By the soon jingling of some sleepy keys,Part with a hasty kiss; and in that showHow stay they would, yet forced they are to go.Even such are we, and in our parting doNo otherwise than as those former twoNatures like ours, we who have spent our timeBoth from the morning to the evening chime.Nay, till the bellman of the night had tolledPast noon of night, yet wear the hours not oldNor dulled with iron sleep, but have outwornThe fresh and fairest nourish of the mornWith flame and rapture; drinking to the oddNumber of nine which makes us full with God,And in that mystic frenzy we have hurled,As with a tempest, nature through the world,And in a whirlwind twirl'd her home, aghastAt that which in her ecstasy had past;Thus crowned with rosebuds, sack, thou mad'st me flyLike fire-drakes, yet didst me no harm thereby.O thou almighty nature, who didst giveTrue heat wherewith humanity doth liveBeyond its stinted circle, giving food,White fame and resurrection to the good;Shoring them up 'bove ruin till the doom,The general April of the world doth comeThat makes all equal. Many thousands should,Were't not for thee, have crumbled into mould,And with their serecloths rotted, not to showWhether the world such spirits had or no,Whereas by thee those and a million since,Nor fate, nor envy, can their fames convince.Homer, Musæus, Ovid, Maro, moreOf those godful prophets long beforeHeld their eternal fires, and ours of late(Thy mercy helping) shall resist strong fate,Nor stoop to the centre, but survive as longAs fame or rumour hath or trump or tongue;But unto me be only hoarse, since now(Heaven and my soul bear record of my vow)I my desires screw from thee, and directThem and my thoughts to that sublim'd respectAnd conscience unto priesthood; 'tis not need(The scarecrow unto mankind) that doth breedWiser conclusions in me, since I knowI've more to bear my charge than way to go,Or had I not, I'd stop the spreading itchOf craving more, so in conceit be rich;But 'tis the God of Nature who intendsAnd shapes my function for more glorious ends.Kiss, so depart, yet stay a while to seeThe lines of sorrow that lie drawn in meIn speech, in picture; no otherwise than when,Judgment and death denounced 'gainst guilty men,Each takes a weeping farewell, racked in mindWith joys before and pleasures left behind;Shaking the head, whilst each to each doth mourn,With thought they go whence they must ne'er return.So with like looks, as once the ministrelCast, leading his Eurydice through hell,I strike thy love, and greedily pursueThee with mine eyes or in or out of view.So looked the Grecian orator when sentFrom's native country into banishment,Throwing his eyeballs backward to surveyThe smoke of his beloved Attica;So Tully looked when from the breasts of RomeThe sad soul went, not with his love, but doom,Shooting his eyedarts 'gainst it to surpriseIt, or to draw the city to his eyes.Such is my parting with thee, and to proveThere was not varnish only in my love,But substance, lo! receive this pearly tearFrozen with grief and place it in thine ear.Then part in name of peace, and softly onWith numerous feet to hoofy Helicon;And when thou art upon that forked hillAmongst the thrice three sacred virgins, fillA full-brimm'd bowl of fury and of rage,And quaff it to the prophets of our age;When drunk with rapture curse the blind and lame,Base ballad-mongers who usurp thy nameAnd foul thy altar; charm some into frogs,Some to be rats, and others to be hogs;Into the loathsom'st shapes thou canst deviseTo make fools hate them, only by disguise;Thus with a kiss of warmth and love I partNot so, but that some relic in my heartShall stand for ever, though I do addressChiefly myself to what I must profess.Know yet, rare soul, when my diviner museShall want a handmaid (as she oft will use),Be ready, thou for me, to wait upon her,Though as a servant, yet a maid of honour.The crown of duty is our duty: wellDoing's the fruit of doing well. Farewell.

Fly hence, pale care, no more rememberPast sorrows with the fled December,But let each pleasant cheek appearSmooth as the childhood of the year,And sing a carol here.'Twas brave, 'twas brave, could we command the handOf youth's swift watch to standAs you have done your day;Then should we not decay.But all we wither, and our lightIs spilt in everlasting night,Whenas your sightShows like the heavens above the moon,Like an eternal noonThat sees no setting sun.

Keep up those flames, and though you shroudAwhile your forehead in a cloud,Do it like the sun to writeIn the air a greater text of light;Welcome to all our vows,And since you payTo us this daySo long desir'd,See we have fir'dOur holy spikenard, and there's noneBut brings his stick of cinnamon,His eager eye or smoother smile,And lays it gently on the pile,Which thus enkindled, we invokeYour name amidst the sacred smoke.

Chorus. Come then, great Lord.And see our altar burnWith love of your return,And not a man here but consumesHis soul to glad you in perfumes.

You may vow I'll not forgetTo pay the debtWhich to thy memory stands as dueAs faith can seal it you;Take then tribute of my tears,So long as I have fearsTo prompt me I shall everLanguish and look, but thy return see never.Oh then to lessen my despairPrint thy lips into the air,So by thisMeans I may kiss thy kissWhenas some kindWindShall hither waft it, and in lieuMy lips shall send a 1000 back to you.