To the Painter Preparing to Draw M. M. H.

BE not too forward, painter; 'tis

More for thy fame, and art, to miss

All other faces, than come near

The Lady, that expecteth here.

Be wise, and think it less disgrace

To draw an angel, than her face;

For in such forms, who is so wise

To tell thee where thy error lies?

But since all beauty (that is known)

Is in her virgin sweetness one,

How can it be, that painting her

But every look should make thee err?

But thou art resolute I see;

Yet let my fancy walk with thee:

Compose a ground more dark and sad,

Than that the early Chaos had,

And show, to the whole sex's shame,

Beauty was darkness till she came.

Then paint her eyes, whose active light

Shall make the former shadows bright,

And with their every beam supply

New day, to draw her picture by.

Now, if thou wilt complete the face,

A wonder paint in every place.

  Beneath these, for her fair neck's sake,

White as the Paphian Turtles, make

A pillar, whose smooth base doth show

It self lost in a mount of snow;

Her breast, the house of chaste desire,

Cold, but increasing others' fire.

  But how I lose (instructing thee)

Thy pencil, and my poetry!

For when thou hast expressed all art,

As high as truth, in every part,

She can resemble at the best,

One, in her beauty's silence dressed,

Where thou, like a dull looker-on,

Art lost, and all thy art undone;

For if she speak, new wonders rise

From her teeth, chin, lip, and eyes;

So far above that excellent

Did take thee first, thou should repent

To have begun, and lose i'th'end

Thy eyes with wonder how to mend.

At such a loss, here's all thy choice,

Leave off, or paint her with a voice.

James Shirley

The Garden

THIS Garden does not take my eyes,

Though here you show how art of men

Can purchase Nature at a price

Would stock old Paradise again.

These glories while you dote upon,

I envy not your spring nor pride,

Nay, boast the summer all your own,

My thoughts with less are satisified.

Give me a little plot of ground,

Where might I with the Sun agree,

Though every day he walk the round,

My Garden he should seldom see.

Those Tulips that such wealth display,

To court my eye, shall lose their name,

Though now they listen, as if they

Expected I should praise their name.

But I would see my self appear

Within the Violet's drooping head,

On which a melancholy tear

The discontented morn hath shed.

Within their buds let Roses sleep,

And virgin Lilies on their stem,

Till sighs from lovers glide, and creep

Into their leaves to open them.

I'th'center of my ground compose

Of Bays and Yew my summer room,

Which may so oft as I repose,

Present my arbor, and my tomb.

No woman here shall find me out,

Or if a chance do bring one hither,

I'll be secure, for round about

I'll moat it with my eyes' foul weather.

No bird shall live within my pale,

To charm me with their shames of art,

Unless some wandering Nightingale

Come here to sing and break her heart.

Upon whose death I'll try to write

An epitaph in some funeral stone,

So sad, and true, it may invite

My self to die, and prove mine own.

James Shirley

To a Lady Upon a Looking-Glass Sent

WHEN this crystal shall present

     Your beauty to your eye,

Think that lovely face was meant

     To dress another by.

For not to make them proud,

These glasses are allowed

     To those are fair,

     But to compare

The inward beauty with the outward grace,

And make them fair in soul as well as face.

James Shirley