Elizabeth of Bohemia

You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light,
You common people of the skies;

What are you when the moon shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth Dime Nature’s lays,
Thinking your passions 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 virtue first, then choice, a Queen,
Tell me, if she were not design’d
Th’ eclipse and glory of her kind.