Epistle XXXVIII. To his Mistress

Your pardon Lady; by my troth I erre,
I thought each face a painted Sepulchre,
That wore but beauty on't; I did suppose,
That outward beauty had been ominous.
And that had been so opposite to wit,
As it ne'r wisdome met, nor vertue it.
Your face confutes me, and I do begin
To know my errour, and repent my sin:
For on those Rosie cheeks I plainly see,
And read my former thoughts deformity.
I could believe Hyperboles, and think
That praise to low that flowes from pen and ink:
That you're all Angel; when I look on you,
I'm forc'd to think the Rampant'st fictions true:
Nay I dare swear (though once I did abhor it)
That Men love Women, and have reason for it.
The Lapidaries now shall learn to set
Their Diamonds in Gold, and not in Jet.
The Proverb's cross'd, for now a man may find
Abeauteous face i'th' Index of a mind.
How I could praise you, and your worth display,
But that my ravish'd pen is forc'd to stay:
And when I think t' express your purer fashion,
My expressions turn to stupid Admiration.
Natures perfection! She by forming thee?
Proves she has now infallibility:
You're an Enchiridion, whom Heav'n did print,
To copy by, with no Errata in't.
You're my Urania, nay within you be
The Muses met in their Ter-trinity:
Else how could I turn Poet, and retain
My banish'd Muse into my thoughts again!
See what your wit, see what your beauty can;
T'make a Poet's more then t'make a Man;
I've wit b'infusion, nay I've beauty too,
I think I'm comely, if you think me so.
Add to your vertues love, and you may be
A wife for Jovs, pray let that Jove be me.