LITMIR.BIZ

           There is a garden in her face

             Where roses and white lilies blow;

           A heavenly paradise is that place,

             Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;

           There cherries grow that none may buy,

           Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

           Those cherries fairly do enclose

             Of orient pearl a double row,

           Which when her lovely laughter shows,

             They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow:

           Yet them no peer nor prince can buy

           Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.

           Her eyes like angels watch them still;

             Her brows like bended bows do stand,

           Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill

             All that approach with eye or hand

           These sacred cherries to come nigh,

           —Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!

           A sweet disorder in the dress

           Kindles in clothes a wantonness:—

           A lawn about the shoulders thrown

           Into a fine distractión,—

           An erring lace, which here and there

           Enthrals the crimson stomacher,—

           A cuff neglectful, and thereby

           Ribbands to flow confusedly,—

           A winning wave, deserving note,

           In the tempestuous petticoat,—

           A careless shoe-string, in whose tie

           I see a wild civility;—

           Do more bewitch me, than when art

           Is too precise in every part.

           Whenas in silks my Julia goes

           Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows

           That liquefaction of her clothes.

           Next, when I cast mine eyes and see

           That brave vibration each way free;

           O how that glittering taketh me!

           My Love in her attire doth shew her wit,

            It doth so well become her;

           For every season she hath dressings fit,

            For Winter, Spring, and Summer.

            No beauty she doth miss

            When all her robes are on

            But Beauty's self she is

            When all her robes are gone.

           That which her slender waist confined

           Shall now my joyful temples bind:

           No monarch but would give his crown

           His arms might do what this has done.

           It was my Heaven's extremest sphere,

           The pale which held that lovely deer:

           My joy, my grief, my hope, my love

           Did all within this circle move.

           A narrow compass! and yet there

           Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair:

           Give me but what this ribband bound,

           Take all the rest the Sun goes round.

           Bid me to live, and I will live

             Thy Protestant to be;

           Or bid me love, and I will give

             A loving heart to thee.

           A heart as soft, a heart as kind,

             A heart as sound and free

           As in the whole world thou canst find,

             That heart I'll give to thee.

           Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,

             To honour thy decree:

           Or bid it languish quite away,

             And 't shall do so for thee.

           Bid me to weep, and I will weep,

             While I have eyes to see:

           And having none, yet I will keep

             A heart to weep for thee.

           Bid me despair, and I'll despair,

             Under that cypress tree:

           Or bid me die, and I will dare

             E'en Death, to die for thee.

           Thou art my life, my love, my heart,

             The very eyes of me,

           And hast command of every part,

             To live and die for thee.

           Love not me for comely grace,

           For my pleasing eye or face,

           Nor for any outward part,

           No, nor for a constant heart,—

            For these may fail, or turn to ill,

             So thou and I shall sever:

           Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye,

           And love me still, but know not why—

            So hast thou the same reason still

             To doat upon me ever!

           Not, Celia, that I juster am

            Or better than the

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