Wishes for the Supposed Mistress; Upon the Book and Picture of the Seraphical Saint Teresa
Richard Crashaw
Richard Crashaw
¶2^ Wishes for the Supposed MistressWhoe'er she be.That not impossible SheThat shall command my heart and me;[360]Where'er she lie,Lock'd up from mortal eyeIn shady leaves of destiny: ¶Till that ripe birthOf studied Fate stand forth,And teach her fair steps tread our earth; ¶Till that divineIdea take a shrineOf crystal flesh, through which to shine: ¶— Meet you her, my Wishes,Bespeak her to my blisses,And be ye call'd, my absent kisses. ¶I wish her BeautyThat owes not all its dutyTo gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie: ¶Something more thanTaffata or tissue can,Or rampant feather, or rich fan. ¶A Face that's bestBy its own beauty drest,And can alone commend the rest: ¶A Face made upOut of no other shopThan what Nature's white hand sets ope. ¶A Cheek, where youthAnd blood, with pen of truth,Write what the reader sweedy ru'th. ¶A Cheek , where growsMore than a morning rose,Which to no box his being owes.[361]Lips, where all dayA lover's kiss may play,Yet carry nothing thence away. ¶Looks, that oppressTheir richest tires, but dressAnd clothe their simplest nakedness. ¶Eyes, that displaceThe neighbor diamond, and outfaceThat sunshine by their own sweet grace. ¶Tresses, that wearJewels but to declareHow much themselves more precious are: ¶Whose native rayCan tame the wanton dayOf gems that in their bright shades play. ¶Each ruby there,Or pearl that dare appear,Be its own blush, be its own tear. ¶A well-tamed Heart,For whose more noble smartLove may be long choosing a dart. ¶Eyes, that bestowFull quivers on love's bow,Yet pay less arrows than they owe. ¶Smiles, that can warmThe blood, yet teach a charm,That chastity shall take no harm. ¶Blushes, that binThe burnish of no sin,Nor flames of aught too hot within.[362]Joys, that confessVirtue their mistress.And have no other head to dress. ¶Fears, fond and slightAs the coy bride's, when nightFirst does the longing lover right. ¶Days, that need borrowNo part of their good morrowFrom a fore-spent night of sorrow: ¶Days, that in spiteOf darkness, by the lightOf a clear mind are day all night. ¶Nights, sweet as theyMade short by lovers* play,Yet long by th' absence of day. ¶Life, that dares sendA challenge to his end.And when it comes, say, 'Welcome, friend.' ¶Sydneian ShowersOf sweet discourse, whose powersCan crown old Winter's head with flowers. ¶Soft silken hours,Open suns, shady bowers;'Bove all, nothing within that lowers. ¶Whate'er delightCan make Day's forehead brightOr give down to the wings of night. ¶I wish her storeOf worth may leave her poorOf wishes; and I wish—no more.[363]— Now , if Time knowsThat Her, whose radiant browsWeave them a garland of my vows ; ¶Her, whose just baysMy future hopes can raise,A trophy to her present praise; ¶Her that dares beWhat these lines wish to see:I seek no further, it is She. ¶'Tis She, and hereLo ! I unclothe and clearMy Wishes cloudy character. ¶May she enjoy itWhose merit dare apply it.But modesty dares still deny it! ¶Such worth as this isShall fix my flying Wishes,And determine them to kisses. ¶Let her full glory,My fancies, fly before ye;Be ye my fictions:—but her story. Upon the Book and Picture of theSeraphical Saint Teresa
¶LIVE in these conquering leaves: live all the same;And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame;Live here, great heart; and love, and die, and kill:And bleed, and wound , and yield, and conquer still.Let this immortal life where'er it comesWalk in a crowd of loves and martyrdoms.Let mystic deaths wait on't; and wise souls beThe love-slain witnesses of this life of thee.O sweet incendiary! show here thy artUpon this carcase of a hard cold heart;Let all thy scatter'd shafts of light, that play Thomas Jordan
¶Among the leaves of thy large books of day,Combin'd against this breast at once break in,And take away from me myself and sin;This gracious robbery shall thy bounty beAnd my best fortunes such fair spoils of me.O thou undaunted daughter of desires!By all thy dower of lights and fires;By all the eagle in thee, all the dove;By all thy lives and deaths of love;By thy large draughts of intellectual day,And by thy thirsts of love more large than they;By all thy brim-filled bowls of fierce desire,By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire;By the full kingdom of that final kissThat seized thy parting soul, and sealed thee His;By all the He a v ' n thou hast in Him(Fair sister of the seraphim!);By all of Him we have in thee;Leave nothing of myself in me.Let me so read thy life, that IUnto all life of mine may die!