Epigram 36. To Mrs Elizabeth Spencer

Hail beauteous Virgin! you whose glorious hair
Justly with Ariadne's may compare:
Whose eyes are Globes of purest fire, whence flashes
Th' enamour'd Nation soon would burn to ashes,
Did not your mighty modesty delight
(With their fair lids, and veils) to cloud their sight.
Your features are such wonders, they can finde
No Parallels throughout all Womankinde.
How fine your hands are! And how sweetly they
Command the Lutes delicious Harmony!
Your Figure with your Form so right agrees,
That you are Natures exquisitest Piece.
Pretty ones we your feet must guess to be,
That toots are unto such a graceful Tree;
Whose leaves your clothes are & conceal such things
As would in Queens raise envy, Flames in Kings.
Your own affection cause of fruit must prove,
Which yet none of our sex could ever move.
You are all fair without, and sure within
Your fairer soul's a glorious Cherubin:
He of mankind will lead the happiest life,
Whom you shall honour to become his wife.