The Golden Treasury. Unknown

           Daughter to that good earl, once President

           Of England's council and her treasury,

           Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee,

           And left them both, more in himself content.

           Till the sad breaking of that parliament

           Broke him, as that dishonest victory

           At Chaeronia, fatal to liberty,

           Kill'd with report that old man eloquent;—

           Though later born than to have known the days

           Wherein your father flourish'd, yet by you,

           Madam, methinks I see him living yet;

           So well your words his noble virtues praise,

           That all both judge you to relate them true,

           And to possess them, honour'd Margaret.

           It is not Beauty I demand,

           A crystal brow, the moon's despair,

           Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand,

           Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair:

           Tell me not of your starry eyes,

           Your lips that seem on roses fed,

           Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies,

           Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:—

           A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks

           Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,

           A breath that softer music speaks

           Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,

           These are but gauds: nay what are lips?

           Coral beneath the ocean-stream,

           Whose brink when your adventurer slips

           Full oft he perisheth on them.

           And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft

           That wave hot youth to fields of blood?

           Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,

           Do Greece or Ilium any good?

           Eyes can with baleful ardour burn;

           Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed;

           There's many a white hand holds an urn

           With lovers hearts to dust consumed.

           For crystal brows there's nought within;

           They are but empty cells for pride;

           He who the Syren's hair would win

           Is mostly strangled in the tide.

           Give me, instead of Beauty's bust,

           A tender heart, a loyal mind

           Which with temptation I would trust,

           Yet never link'd with error find,—

           One in whose gentle bosom I

           Could pour my secret heart of woes,

           Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly

           That hides his murmurs in the rose,—

           My earthly Comforter! whose love

           So indefeasible might be

           That, when my spirit wonn'd above,

           Hers could not stay, for sympathy.

              He that loves a rosy cheek

               Or a coral lip admires,

              Or from star-like eyes doth seek

               Fuel to maintain his fires;

              As old Time makes these decay,

              So his flames must waste away.

              But a smooth and steadfast mind,

               Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,

              Hearts with equal love combined,

               Kindle never-dying fires:—

              Where these are not, I despise

              Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.

           Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes

           Which starlike sparkle in their skies;

           Nor be you proud, that you can see

           All hearts your captives; yours yet free:

           Be you not proud of that rich hair

           Which wantons with the lovesick air;

           Whenas that ruby which you wear,

           Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,

           Will last to be a precious stone,

           When all your world of beauty's gone.