Wishes to his (Supposed) Mistress

Who e’er she be That not impossible she That shall command my heart and me; Wher e’er she lie, Lock’d up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny; Till that ripe birth Of studied fate stand forth And teach her fair steps to 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 call’d my absent kisses. I wish her beauty That owes not all his duty To gaudy tire, or glist’ring shoe-ty. 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 drest, And can alone command 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 his 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 displaces The neighbour diamond, and outfaces That sunshine, by their own sweet graces. 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-tam’d 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 flight As the coy bride’s when night First does the longing lover right. Tears, quickly fled, And vain, as those are shed For a dying maidenhead. Days, that need borrow No part of their good morrow From a forespent 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 th’ absence of the day. Life, that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes say, “Welcome friend.” Sidneian 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 lours. Whate’er delight Can make Day’s forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of Night. In her whole frame Have nature all the name, Art and ornament the shame. Her flattery, Picture and poesy, Her counsel her own virtue be. I wish, her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes, and I wish—no more. Now if time knows That her whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows, Her whose just bays My future hopes can raise, A trophy to her present praise; Her that dares be What these lines wish to see: I seek no further, it is she. ’Tis she, and here, Lo, I unclothe and clear My wishes’ cloudy character. May she enjoy it, Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it. Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying wishes, And determine them to kisses. Let her full glory, My fancies, fly before ye; Be ye my fictions; but her story.