henry wotton - on his mistress, the queen of bohemia lyrics
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you meaner beauties of the night
that poorly satisfie our eyes
more by your number, than your light
you common people of the skies;
what are you when the sun shall rise?
you curious chanters of the wood
that warble forth dame natures layes
thinking your voices understood
by your weak accents; what’s your praise
when philomel her voice shall raise?
you violets, that first appear
by your pure purple mantles known
like the proud virgins of the year
as if the spring were all your own;
what are you when the rose is blown?
so, when my mistress shall be seen
in form and beauty of her mind
by vertue first, then choice a queen
tell me, if she were not design’d
th’ eclipse and glory of her kind?
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