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On her Beauty.
WHen that my Mistress looks my sight doth grace,
She seems to sway an Empire in her face;
Nature her self, did her own self admire,
As oft as she were pleased to attire
Her in her native lustre, and confess,
Her dressing was her chiefest comliness:
Where every limb takes like a face,
Built with that comely and majestick grace;
One accent, from whose lips the blood more warms
Then all Medea's exorcisms and charms.
He that since Nature her great work began,
She made to be the mirror of a man:
That when she meant to form some matchless limb,
Still for a pattern took some part from him;
And jealous of her coming, brake the mould.
In his proportion, done the best she could,
If she discourse, her lip such accents breaks,
As love turn'd air, breaths from him as he speaks.
She maketh Jove invent a new disguise,
Inspite of Juno's watchful jealousie:
Whose every part doth also reinvite
The coldest most decayed appetite:
And shall be Nurse, as mighty Juno swears,
To the next bright hair'd Cupid that she bears.