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Richard Crashaw
Wishes, To His (Supposed) Mistress


Whoe'er she be,
That not impossible she
That shall command my heart and me;

Where'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-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 drest,
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 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 ther 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."

Sidneyan 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.

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 thse 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.



Love is, above all, the gift of oneself. - Jean Anouilh,

When I am sad and weary. When I think all hope has gone.
When I walk along High Holborn, I think of you with nothing on

Adrian Mitchell

Those have most power to hurt us that we love. - Francis Beaumont

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