Concerning Lucy | He Will Praise His Lady

Concerning Lucy

When Lucy draws her mantle round her face,
So sweeter than all else she is to see,
That hence unto the hills there lives not he
Whose whole soul would not love her for her grace.
Then seems she like a daughter of some race
That holds high rule in France or Germany:
And a snake's head striken off suddenly
Throbs never as then throbs my heart to embrace
Her body in these arms, even where she loth;
To kiss her lips, to kiss her cheeks, to kiss
The lids of her two eyes which are two flames.
Yet what my heart so longs for, my heart blames:
For surely sorrow might be bred from this
Where some man's patient love abides its growth.

He Will Praise His Lady

Yea, let me praise my lady whom I love,
Likening her unto the lily and rose:
Brighter than morning star her visage glows;
She is beneath even as her saint above:
She is the air in summer which God wove
Of purple and of vermilion glorious;
As gold and jewels richer than man knows.
Love's self, being love for her, must holier prove.
Ever as she walks she hath a sober grace,
Making bold men abash'd and good men glad;
If she delight thee not, thy heart must err.
No man dare look on her his thoughts being base:
Nay, let me say even more than I have said;
No man could think base thoughts who look'd on her.

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