CII.
Where be those roses gone, which sweetened so our eyes?
Where those red cheeks, which oft with fair increase did frame
The height of honour, in the kindly badge of shame?
Who hath the crimson weeds stolen from my morning skies?
How doth the colour vade of those vermilion dyes
Which Nature's self did make, and self engrained the same?
I would know by what right this paleness overcame
That hue, whose force my heart still unto thraldom ties?
GALEN'S adoptive sons, who by a beaten way
Their judgments hackney on, the fault on sickness lay:
But feeling proof makes me (say they) mistake it far.
It is but LOVE that makes his paper perfect white,
To write therein more fresh the story of delight:
While beauty's reddest ink, VENUS for him doth stir.
CIII.
O happy Thames! that didst my STELLA bare.
I saw thyself with many a smiling line
Upon thy cheerful face, JOY'S livery wear;
While those fair planets on thy streams did shine.
The boat, for joy could not to dance forbear:
While wanton winds, with beauties so divine,
Ravished; stayed not, till in her golden hair
They did themselves (O sweetest prison!) twine.
And fain those ÆOL's youths there would their stay
Have made; but forced by Nature still to fly;
First did with puffing kiss, those locks display.
She so dishevelled, blushed. From window, I,
With sight thereof, cried out, "O fair disgrace!
Let honour's self to thee grant highest place!"
