Part 96

Till that ripe birth Of studied Fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps tread our earth:

Till that divine Idea take a shrine 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 the 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.

Looks, that oppress Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simplest 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.

Fears, fond and slight As the coy bride's, when night, First does the longing lover right.

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.