RICHARD CRASHAW

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 cali'd my absent kisses.

I wish her Beauty,

That owes not all its duty

To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie :

Something more than Taffata or tissue can, Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

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 to no box his being owes.

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