Elizabeth of Bohemia
YOU mean beauties of the night,
Which poorly satisfies our eyes
More by your number than your light,
You common people of the skies,—
What are you, when the Moon shall rise?
Ye 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?
Ye curious chanters of the wood
That warble forth dame Nature’s lays,
Thinking your passions understood
By your weak accents,—what’s your praise
When Philomel her voice will raise?
