Ben Jonson(1572–1637)
Her Triumph
See the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,1
And well the care 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 0 were to run by her side,always
Through 2 swords, through seas, whither 0 she would ride, wherever
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 star3 when 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.4
Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touched it
Ha' you marked but the fall o' the snow
Before the soil hath smutched 0 itsmudged
Ha' you felt the wool o' the beaver
Or swan's down ever
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier
Or the nard5 in the fire
Or have tasted the bag o' the beesack of honey
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!