Her Triumph

See the chariot at hand here of Love,
    Wherein my lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
    And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
                  Unto her beauty;
And enamored do wish, so they might
                  But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes, they do light
    All that Love's world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
    As Love's star with it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
                  Than words that soothe her!
And from her arched 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 touched it?
Have you marked but the fall o' the snow,
    Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool of the beaver,
                  Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar?
                  Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white,   O so soft,   O so sweet is she!