Hast 'ou fashioned so airy a mood/To draw up leaf from the root?/Hast 'ou found a cloud so light/As seemed neither mist nor shade?
4. Her Triumph
See the Chariot at hand here of Love Wherein my Lady rideth! Each that drawes, is a Swan, or Dove, And well the Carre Love guideth; And she goes, all hearts doe duty Unto her beauty; And enamour'd, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were, to run by her side, Through Swords, through Seas, whether she would ride.
Doe but looke on her eyes, they doe light All that Loves would compriseth! Doe but looke on her Haire, it is bright As Loves starre when it riseth! Doe but marke her forhead's smoother Then words that sooth her! And from her arched browes, such a grace Sheds it selfe though the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the Gaine, all the Good, of the Elements strife.
Have you seene but a bright Lillie grow, Before rude hands have touch'd it? Ha'you mark'd but the fall o'the Snow Before the soyle hath smutch'd it? Ha'you felt th wooll of Bever? Or Swan's downe ever? Or have smelt o'the bud o'the Brier? Or the Nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the Bee? O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!
From "A Celebration of Charis in Ten Lyric Pieces" by Ben Jonson (1573?-1637) British poet.
The Poems of Ben Jonson, ed. Bernard H. Newdigate, Oxford, Shakespear Head Press, 1936, pg. 91-92.