CELIAS TRIUMPH.

And from her arch'd brows, such a grace

Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touch'd it 1
Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow,

Before the soil hath smutch'd it 1
Have you felt the wool of the beaver,

Or swan's down ever 1
Or have smell'd of the bud o' the brier?

Or the 'nard in the fire 1
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!

Ben Jonson.

STILL TO BE NEAT.

Still to be neat, still to be drest,

As you were going to a feast;

Still to be powdered, still perfumed:

Lady, it is to be presumed,

Though art's hid causes are not found

All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace:

STILL TO BE NEAT.

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all the adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Hen J On Son.

TO THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA.

You common people of the skies!
What are you, when the sun shall rise 1

You curious chanters of the wood
That warble forth dame Nature's lays,

Thinking your voices understood

By your weak accents! what's your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known,

Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own!
What are you, when the rose is blown 1

So, when my mistress shall be seen
In form and beauty of her mind;

By virtue first, then choice, a Queen!
Tell me, if she were not design'd
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind 1

Str Henry Wottox.