Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/244

 Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her; And from her arch'd brows such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touch'd it? Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow Before the soil hath smutch'd it? Have you felt the wool of beaver, Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier, Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!

189.

HOUGH beauty be the mark of praise, And yours of whom I sing be such As not the world can praise too much, Yet 'tis your Virtue now I raise.

A virtue, like allay so gone Throughout your form as, though that move And draw and conquer all men's love, This subjects you to love of one.

Wherein you triumph yet&mdash;because 'Tis of your flesh, and that you use The noblest freedom, not to choose Against or faith or honour's laws.