Of Heavenly Beautie

Rapt with the rage of mine own ravisht thought,Through contemplation of those goodly sightsAnd glorious images in heaven wrought,Whose wondrous beauty, breathing sweet delights,Do kindle love in high conceipted sprights,I faine to tell the things that I behold,But feele my wits to faile and tongue to fold.

Vouchsafe then, O Thou most Almightie Spright!From whom all guifts of wit and knowledge flow,To shed into my breast some sparkling lightOf thine eternall truth, that I may showSome little beames to mortall eyes belowOf that immortall Beautie there with Thee,Which in my weake distraughted mynd I see;

That with the glorie of so goodly sightThe hearts of men, which fondly here admyreFaire seeming shewes, and feed on vaine delight,Transported with celestiall desyreOf those faire formes, may lift themselves up hyer,And learne to love, with zealous humble dewty,Th’Eternall Fountaine of that heavenly Beauty.

Beginning then below, with th’easie vewOf this base world, subiect to fleshly eye,From thence to mount aloft, by order dew,To contemplation of th’immortall sky;Of the soare faulcon so I learne to flye.That flags a while her fluttering wings beneath,Till she her selfe for stronger flight can breath.first

Then looke, who list thy gazefull eyes to feedWith sight of that is faire, looke on the frameOf this wyde universe, and therein reedThe endlesse kinds of creatures which by nameThou canst not count, much less their natures aime;All which are made with wondrous wise respect,And all with admirable beautie deckt.

First, th’Earth, on adamantine pillers foundedAmid the Sea, engirt with brasen bands;Then th’Aire, still flitting, but yet firmely boundedOn everie side with pyles of flaming brands,Never consum’d, nor quencht with mortall hands;And last, that mightie shining cristall wall,Wherewith he hath encompassed this all.

By view whereof it plainly may appeare,That still as every thing doth upward tendAnd further is from earth, so still more cleareAnd faire it growes, till to his perfect endOf purest Beautie it at last ascend;Ayre more then water, fire much more then ayre,And heaven then fire, appeares more pure and fayre.

Looke thou no further, but affixe thine eyeOn that bright shynie round still moving masse,The house of blessed God, which men call Skye,All sowd with glistring stars more thicke then grasse,Whereof each other doth in brightnesse passe,But those two most, which, ruling night and day,As king and queene the heavens empire sway;

And tell me then, what hast thou ever seeneThat to their beautie may compared bee?Or can the sight that is most sharpe and keeneEndure their captains flaming head to see?How much lesse those, much higher in degree,And so much fairer, and much more then these,As these are fairer then the land and seas?

For farre above these heavens which here we see,Be others farre exceeding these in light,Not bounded, not corrupt, as these same bee,But infinite in largenesse and in hight,Unmoving, uncorrupt, and spotlesse bright,That need no sunne t’illuminate their spheres,But their owne native light farre passing theirs.

And as these heavens still by degrees arize,Until they come to their first movers bound,That in his mightie compasse doth comprizeAnd carrie all the rest with him around,So those likewise doe by degrees redound**,And rise more faire, till they at last ariveTo the most faire, whereto they all do strive.

Faire is the heaven where happy soules have place,In full enioyment of felicitie,Whence they doe still behold the glorious faceOf the Divine Eternall Maiestie;More faire is that where those Idees on hieEnraunged be, which Plato so admyred,And pure Intelligences from God inspyred.

Yet fairer is that heaven in which do raineThe soveraigne Powres and mightie Potentates,Which in their high protections doe containeAll mortall princes and imperiall states;And fayrer yet whereas the royall SeatesAnd heavenly Dominations are set,From whom all earthly governance is fet.

Yet farre more faire be those bright Cherubins,Which all with golden wings are overdight,And those eternall burning Seraphins,Which from their faces dart out fierie light;Yet fairer then they both, and much more bright,Be th’Angels and Archangels, which attendOn Gods owne person, without rest or end.

These thus in faire each other farre excelling,As to the Highest they approach more near,Yet is that Highest farre beyond all telling,Fairer then all the rest which there appeare,Though all their beauties ioyn’d together were;How then can mortall tongue hope to expresseThe image of such endlesse perfectnesse?

Cease then, my tongue! and lend unto my myndLeave to bethinke how great that Beautie is,Whose utmost parts so beautifull I fynd;How much more those essentiall parts of His,His truth, his love, his wisedome, and his blis,His grace, his doome**, his mercy, and his might,By which he lends us of himselfe a sight!

Those unto all he daily doth display,And shew himselfe in th’image of his grace,As in a looking-glasse, through which he mayBe seene of all his creatures vile and base,That are unable else to see his face;His glorious face! which glistereth else so bright,That th’angels selves can not endure his sight.

But we, fraile wights! whose sight cannot sustaineThe suns bright beames when he on us doth shyne,But that their points rebutted** backe againeAre duld, how can we see with feeble eyneThe glorie of that Maiestie Divine,In sight of whom both sun and moone are darke,Compared to his least resplendent sparke?

The meanes, therefore, which unto us is lentHim to behold, is on his workes to looke.Which he hath made in beauty excellent,And in the same, as in a brasen booke,To read enregistred in every nookeHis goodnesse, which his beautie doth declare;For all thats good is beautifull and faire.

Thence gathering plumes of perfect speculationTo impe the wings of thy high flying mynd,Mount up aloft through heavenly contemplationFrom this darke world, whose damps the soule do blynd,And, like the native brood of eagles kynd,On that bright Sunne of Glorie fixe thine eyes,Clear’d from grosse mists of fraile infirmities.

Humbled with feare and awfull reverence,Before the footestoole of his MaiestieThrow thy selfe downe, with trembling innocence,Ne dare looke up with córruptible eyeOn the dred face of that great Deity,For feare lest, if he chaunce to look on thee,Thou turne to nought, and quite confounded be.

But lowly fall before his mercie seate,Close covered with the Lambes integrityFrom the iust wrath of His avengefull threateThat sits upon the righteous throne on hy;His throne is built upon Eternity,More firme and durable then steele or brasse,Or the hard diamond, which them both doth passe.

His scepter is the rod of Righteousnesse,With which he bruseth all his foes to dust,And the great Dragon strongly doth represseUnder the rigour of his iudgment iust;His seate is Truth, to which the faithfull trust,From whence proceed her beames so pure and bright,That all about him sheddeth glorious light:

Light farre exceeding that bright blazing sparkeWhich darted is from Titans flaming head,That with his beames enlumineth the darkeAnd dampish air, wherby al things are red;Whose nature yet so much is marvelledOf mortall wits, that it doth much amazeThe greatest wisards** which thereon do gaze.

But that immortall light which there doth shineIs many thousand times more bright, more cleare,More excellent, more glorious, more divine;Through which to God all mortall actions here,And even the thoughts of men, do plaine appeare;For from th’Eternall Truth it doth proceed,Through heavenly vertue which her beames doe breed.

With the great glorie of that wondrous lightHis throne is all encompassed around,And hid in his owne brightnesse from the sightOf all that looke thereon with eyes unsound;And underneath his feet are to be foundThunder, and lightning, and tempestuous fyre,The instruments of his avenging yre.

There in his bosome Sapience doth sit,The soveraine dearling of the Deity,Clad like a queene in royall robes, most fitFor so great powre and peerelesse maiesty,And all with gemmes and iewels gorgeouslyAdornd, that brighter then the starres appeare,And make her native brightnes seem more cleare.

And on her head a crown of purest goldIs set, in signe of highest soverainty;And in her hand a scepter she doth hold,With which she rules the house of God on hy,And menageth the ever-moving sky,And in the same these lower creatures allSubiected to her powre imperiall.

Both heaven and earth obey unto her will,And all the creatures which they both containe;For of her fulnesse, which the world doth fill,They all partake, and do in state remaineAs their great Maker did at first ordaine,Through observation of her high beheast,By which they first were made, and still increast.

The fairnesse of her face no tongue can tell;For she the daughters of all wemens race,And angels eke, in beautie doth excell,Sparkled on her from Gods owne glorious face,And more increast by her owne goodly grace,That it doth farre exceed all humane thought,Ne can on earth compared be to ought.

Ne could that painter (had he lived yet)Which pictured Venus with so curious quillThat all posteritie admyred it,Have purtray’d this, for all his maistring skill;Ne she her selfe, had she remained still,And were as faire as fabling wits do fayne,Could once come neare this Beauty soverayne.

But had those wits, the wonders of their dayes,Or that sweete Teian poet, which did spendHis plenteous vaine in setting forth her praise,Seen but a glims of this which I pretend**,How wondrously would he her face commend,Above that idole of his fayning thought,That all the world should with his rimes be fraught!

How then dare I, the novice of his art,Presume to picture so divine a wight,Or hope t’expresse her least perfections part,Whose beautie filles the heavens with her light,And darkes the earth with shadow of her sight?Ah, gentle Muse! thou art too weake and faintThe pourtraict of so heavenly hew to paint.

Let angels, which her goodly face behold,And see at will, her soveraigne praises sing,And those most sacred mysteries unfoldOf that faire love of mightie Heavens King;Enough is me t’admyre so heavenly thing,And being thus with her huge love possest,In th’only wonder of her selfe to rest.

But whoso may, thrise happie man him holdOf all on earth, whom God so much doth grace,And lets his owne Beloved to behold;For in the view of her celestiall faceAll ioy, all blisse, all happinesse, have place;Ne ought on earth can want unto the wightWho of her selfe can win the wishfull sight.

For she out of her secret threasuryPlentie of riches forth on him will powre,Even heavenly riches, which there hidden lyWithin the closet of her chastest bowre,Th’eternall portion of her precious dowre,Which Mighty God hath given to her free,And to all those which thereof worthy bee.

None thereof worthy be, but those whom sheeVouchsafeth to her presence to receave,And letteth them her lovely face to see,Wherof such wondrous pleasures they conceave,And sweete contentment, that it doth bereaveTheir soul of sense, through infinite delight,And them transport from flesh into the spright.

In which they see such admirable things,As carries them into an extasy;And heare such heavenly notes and carolingsOf Gods high praise, that filles the brasen sky;And feele such ioy and pleasure inwardly,That maketh them all worldly cares forget,And onely thinke on that before them set.

Ne from thenceforth doth any fleshly sense,Or idle thought of earthly things, remaine;But all that earst seemd sweet seemes now offence,And all that pleased earst now seemes to paine:Their ioy, their comfort, their desire, their game,Is fixed all on that which now they see;All other sights but fayned shadowes bee.

And that faire lampe which useth to enflameThe hearts of men with selfe-consuming fyre,Thenceforth seemes fowle, and full of sinfull blameAnd all that pompe to which proud minds aspyreBy name of Honor, and so much desyre,Seemes to them basenesse, and all riches drosse,And all mirth sadnesse, and all lucre losse.

So full their eyes are of that glorious sight,And senses fraught with such satietie.That in nought else on earth they can delight,But in th’aspect of that felicitieWhich they have written in theyr inward ey;On which they feed, and in theyr fastened myndAll happie ioy and full contentment fynd.

Ah, then, my hungry soule! which long hast fedOn idle fancies of thy foolish thought,And, with false Beauties flattring bait misled,Hast after vaine deceiptfull shadowes sought,Which all are fled, and now have left thee noughtBut late repentance, through thy follies prief,Ah! ceasse to gaze on matter of thy grief:

And looke at last up to that Soveraine Light,From whose pure beams al perfect Beauty springs,That kindleth love in every godly spright,Even the love of God; which loathing bringsOf this vile world and these gay-seeming things;With whose sweet pleasures being so possest,Thy straying thoughts henceforth for ever rest.