  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? Ye 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 form and beauty of her mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me, if she were not design’d Th’ eclipse and glory of her kind? Sir H. Wotton. |
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