Читать книгу The Golden Treasury - Unknown - Страница 88

     You meaner beauties of the night,

       Which poorly satisfy our eyes

     More by your number than your light,

       You common people of the skies,

     What are you, when the Moon shall rise?

     Ye violets that first appear,

       By your pure purple mantles known

     Like the proud virgins of the year

       As if the spring were all your own,—

     What are you, when the Rose is blown?

     You curious chanters of the wood

       That warble forth dame Nature's lays,

     Thinking your passions understood

       By your weak accents; what's your praise

     When Philomel her voice doth raise?

     So, when my Mistress shall be seen

       In sweetness of her looks and mind,

     By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,

       Tell me, if she were not design'd

     Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?