Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/382

 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 call'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 Taffeta 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.