To Mary, Lady Wroth

Madam, had all antiquity been lost,
All history seal'd up, and fables crost,
That we had left us, nor by time, nor place,
Least mention of a Nymph, a Muse, a Grace,
But even their names were to be made anew,
Who could not but create them all from you?
He, that but saw you wear the wheaten hat,
Would call you more than Ceres, if not that;
And drest in shepherd's tire, who would not say
You were the bright Œnone, Flora, or May?
If dancing, all would cry, the Idalian queen
Were leading forth the Graces on the green;
And armed to the chase, so bare her bow
Diana' alone, so hit, and hunted so.
There's none so dull, that for your style would ask,
That saw you put on Pallas' plumed cask;
Or, keeping your due state, that would not cry,
There Juno sat, and yet no peacock by:
So are you nature's index, and restore,
In yourself, all treasure lost of the age before.