On his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia
Sir Henry Wotton
1568 to 1639
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You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy eyes,
More by your number, than your light,
You people of the skies;
What are you when moon shall rise?
You curious chanters of the wood,
warble forth Dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood
your weak accents; what's your praise,
When Philomel voice shall raise?
You violets that first appear,
By pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of year,
As if the spring were all your own;
What are you when the rose is blown?
So, my mistress shall be seen
In form and beauty her mind,
By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,
me if she were not design'd
Th' eclipse glory of her kind?