Of His Mistress' Face

And would you see my Mistress' face?
It is a flow'ry garden-place:
Where knots of beauty have such grace,
That all is work, and no where space.

It is a sweet delicious morn,
Where day is breeding, never born:
It is a meadow yet unshorn,
Which thousand flowers do adorn.

It is the heaven's bright reflex,
Weak eyes to dazzle and to vex:
It is th' idea of her sex,
Envy of whom doth world perplex.

It is a face of death that smiles,
Pleasing, though it kill the whiles;
Where death and love in pretty wiles
Each other mutually beguiles.

It is fair Beauty's freshest youth;
It is a feign'd Elysium's truth;
The spring that wintered hearts renew'th,
And this is that my soul pursu'th.