Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia YOU meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light,— You common people of the skies, What are you when the moon shall rise? You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth Dame Nature’s lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents,—what ’s your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise? You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own,— What are you when the rose is blown? So when my mistress shall be seen In form and beauty of her mind: By virtue first, then choice, a queen,— Tell me, if she were not designed The eclipse and glory of her kind?
To His Mistress
More from Poet
-
Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia YOU meaner beauties of the night, That poorly satisfy our eyes More by your number than your light,— You common people of the skies, What are you when the moon shall rise? You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth Dame Nature’s lays, Thinking your...
-
How happy is he born and taught That serveth not another’s will; Whose armor is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill! Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death, Not tied unto the world with care Of public fame or private breath; Who...
-
Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares, Anxious sighs, untimely tears, Fly, fly to courts, Fly to fond worldlings’ sports, Where strained sardonic smiles are glozing still, And grief is forced to laugh against her will, Where mirth ’s but mummery, And sorrows only real be....
-
You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light,
You common people of the skies;
What are you when the moon shall rise?You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,
Thinking...