Of her sex; but couldst thou, Love,
Call to mind the forms that strove
For the apple, and those three
Make in one, the same were she.
For this beauty yet doth hide
Something more than thou hast spied.
Outward grace weak Love beguiles :

She is Venus when she smiles,

But she's Juno when she walks,

And Minerva when she talks."

PICTURES OF THE BODY AND OF THE MIND.

BY BEN JONSON.

(Series of lyrics seem to have been a favorite form with Ben Jonson. For, in addition to the ten poems addressed to Charis, he wrote a series addressed to the Lady Venetia Digby, who is reported to have been a lady of great beauty, which he entitled “Eupheme; or, the Fair Fame." Unfortunately, five of this series have been irretrievably lost. The third and fourth are here presented.)

I.

THE PICTURE OF THE BODY.

ITTING and ready to be drawn,

SITT

What makes these velvets, silks, and lawn,

Embroideries, feathers, fringes, lace,

When every limb takes like a face?—

Send these suspected helps to aid
Some form defective, or decayed;
The beauty, without falsehood fair,
Needs naught to clothe it but the air.

Yet something to the painter's view
Were fitly interposed; so new,

He shall, if he can understand,

Work by my fancy, with his hand.

Draw first a cloud, all save her neck,
And out of that make day to break;
Till like her face it do appear,

And men may think all light rose there.

Then let the beams of that disperse
The cloud, and show the universe;
But at such distance, as the eye

May rather yet adore, than spy.

The heaven designed, draw next a spring,
With all that youth, or it can bring;
Four rivers branching forth like seas,
And Paradise confining these.

Last draw the circles of this globe,
And let there be a starry robe
Of constellations 'bout her hurled;
And thou hast painted Beauty's world.

But, painter, see thou do not sell
A copy of this piece; nor tell
Whose 'tis; but if it favor find,
Next sitting we will draw her mind.

II.

THE PICTURE OF THE MIND.

PAINTER, you're come, but pray be gone ;

Now I have better thought thereon,

This work I can perform alone;

And give you reasons more than one.

Not that your art I do refuse;
But here I may no colors use.
Beside, your hand will never hit,
To draw a thing that can not sit.

You could make shift to paint an eye,
An eagle towering in the sky,

The sun, a sea, or soundless pit;
But these are like a mind, not it.

No, to express this mind to sense,
Would ask a Heaven's intelligence;
Since nothing can report that flame,
But what's of kin to whence it came.

Sweet Mind, then speak yourself, and say,
As you go on, by what brave way
Our sense do you with knowledge fill,
And yet remain our wonder still.

I call you, Muse, now make it true;
Henceforth may every line be you;
That all may say, that see the frame,
This is no picture, but the same.

A mind so pure, so perfect fine,
As 'tis not radiant, but divine;
And so disdaining any trier,
'Tis got where it can try the fire.

There, high exalted in the sphere,
As it another nature were,

It moveth all; and makes a flight
As circular as infinite.

Whose notions when it will express

In speech, it is with that excess
Of grace, and music to the ear,
As what it spoke, it planted there.

The voice so sweet, the words so fair,
As some soft chime had stroked the air;
And though the sound had parted thence,
Still left an echo in the sense.

But that a mind so rapt, so high,

So swift, so pure, should yet apply
Itself to us, and come so nigh

Earth's grossness; there's the how and why.

Is it because it sees us dull,

And sunk in clay here, it would pull
Us forth, by some celestial sleight,
Up to her own sublimèd height?

Or hath she here, upon the ground,
Some Paradise or palace found,
In all the bounds of beauty fit
For her t' inhabit? There is it.

Thrice happy house, thou hast receipt
For this so lofty form, so straight,
So polished, perfect, round, and even,
As it slid molded off from heaven.

Not swelling, like the ocean proud,
But stooping gently, as a cloud,
As smooth as oil poured forth, and calm
As showers, and sweet as drops of balm.

Smooth, soft, and sweet, in all a flood,
Where it may run to any good;

And where it stays, it there becomes
A nest of odorous spice and gums.

In action, wingèd as the wind;
In rest, like spirits left behind
Upon a bank or field of flowers,
Begotten by the wind and showers.

In thee, fair mansion, let it rest,
Yet know, with what thou art possessed;
Thou, entertaining in thy breast

But such a mind, mak'st God thy guest.

A VISION OF BEAUTY.

FROM THE NEW INN," BY BEN JONSON.

T was a beauty that I saw,

IT

So pure, so perfect, as the frame

Of all the universe were lame,
To that one figure could I draw,
Or give least line of it a law!

A skein of silk without a knot!
A fair march made without a halt!
A curious form without a fault!
A printed book without a blot!
All beauty!-and without a spot.