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Mongst the
worlds wonders, there doth yet remain
One greater
than the rest, that's all those o're again,
And her
own self beside: A Lady, whose soft breast
Is with
vast honours soul and virtues life possest.
Fair as
original light first from the chaos shot,
When day in
virgin-beams triumph'd, and night was not,
And as
that breath infus'd in the new-breather good,
When
ill unknown was dumb, and bad not understood;
Chearful, as that aspect at this world's finishing,
When cherubims clapp'd wings, and th' sons of Heaven did
sing;
Chast as th' Arabian bird, who all the ayr
denyes,
And ev'n in flames expires, when with her
selfe she lyes.
Oh! she's as kind as drops of new
faln April showers,
That on each gentle breast spring
fresh perfuming flowers;
She's constant, gen'rous,
fixt; she's calm, she is the all
We can of vertue,
honour, faith, or glory call,
And she is (whom I thus
transmit to endless fame)
Mistresse oth' world and
me, and LAURA is her name.
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