Clad all in White.
1.
FAirest thing that shines below,
Why in this robe dost thou appear?
Wouldst thou a white most perfect show,
Thou must at all no garment wear:
Thou wilt seem much whiter so,
Then Winter when 'tis clad with Snow.
The mistresse, or, Several copies of love-verses written by Mr. A. Cowley, in his youth, and now since his death thought fit to be published.
About this Item
- Title
- The mistresse, or, Several copies of love-verses written by Mr. A. Cowley, in his youth, and now since his death thought fit to be published.
- Author
- Cowley, Abraham, 1618-1667.
- Publication
- London :: Printed for Rowland Reynolds ...,
- 1667.
- Rights/Permissions
-
To the extent possible under law, the Text Creation Partnership has waived all copyright and related or neighboring rights to this keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above, according to the terms of the CC0 1.0 Public Domain Dedication (http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/zero/1.0/). This waiver does not extend to any page images or other supplementary files associated with this work, which may be protected by copyright or other license restrictions. Please go to http://www.textcreationpartnership.org/ for more information.
- Cite this Item
-
"The mistresse, or, Several copies of love-verses written by Mr. A. Cowley, in his youth, and now since his death thought fit to be published." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A34824.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed May 17, 2024.
Pages
Page 18
2.
'Tis not the Linnen shewes so faire:
Her skinne shines through, and makes it bright;
So Clouds themselves like Suns appear,
When the Sun pierces them with Light.
So Lillies in a glass inclose,
The Glasse will seem as white as those.
3.
Thou now one heap of beauty art,
Nought outwards, or within is foule;
Condensed beams make every part:
Thy Body's cloathed like thy Soule.
Thy soule which does it selfe display,
Like a starre plac'd i'th the Milky way.
4.
Such robes the Saints departed wear,
Wooven all with Light divine;
Such their exalted Bodies are,
And with such full glory shine.
But oh, they 'tend not mortalls pain:
Men pray, I fear, to both in vaine.
5.
Yet seeing thee so gently pure,
My hopes will needs continue still;
Thou wouldst not take this garment sure,
When thou hadst an intent to kill.