RICHARD CRASHAW

WISHES

TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS

HOE'ER she be

WHOE

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 tread our earth;

Till that Divine

Idea take a shrine

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine :

Meet her, my Wishes!

Bespeak her to my blisses,

And be you call'd my absent kisses.

I wish her beauty

That owes not all its duty

To gaudy tire or glistering shoe-tye,

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 dress'd,

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 their reader sweetly ru'th,

A cheek where grows

More than a morning rose,

Which to no box its 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 Themselves in simple nakedness;

Eyes that displace

The neighbour diamond and outface

That sun-shine by their own sweet grace;

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-tamed heart,

For whose more noble smart

Love may be long choosing a dart;

Yet

Eyes that bestow

Full quivers on Love's bow, pay less arrows than they owe;

Smiles that can warm

The blood, yet teach a charm

That chastity shall take no harm;

Blushes that been

The burnish of no sin,

Nor flames of aught too hot within ;

Joys that confess

Virtue for 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 dying maidenhed;

Days that need borrow

No part of their good morrow From a fore-spent 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 the 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

Now, if Time knows

no more.

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

'Tis She

it is She.

and here

Lo I unclothe and clear

My Wishes' cloudy character.

May She enjoy it

Whose merit dares 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 you my fictions, but Her Story!