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BEAUTY; PINDARIC ODE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Beauty! Thou master-piece of heaven's best skill
Last Line: By his own doom from beauty doom'd for me.
Subject(s): Beauty; Cowley, Abraham (1618-1667)


In answer to an Ode of Mr. Abraham Cowley's upon the same subject.

I

BEAUTY! thou master-piece of Heaven's best skill,
Who in all shapes and lights art Beauty still,
And whether black, or brown, tawny, or white,
Still strik'st with wonder every judging sight;
Thou triumph, which dost entertain the eye,
With admiration's full variety.
Who, though thou variest here and there,
And trick'st thy self in various colour'd hair,
And though with several washes Nature has
Thought fit thy several lineaments to grace,
Yet Beauty still we must acknowledge thee,
Whatever thy complexion be.

II

Beauty, Love's Friend, who help'st him to a throne,
By Wisdom deified, to whom alone
Thy excellence is known,
And ne'er neglected but by those have none;
Thou noble coin, by no false sleight allay'd
By whom we Lovers militant are paid,
True to the touch, and ever best
When thou art brought into the test,
And who dost still of higher value prove,
As deeper thou art search'd by Love,
He who allows thee only in the light
Is there mistaken quite,
For there we only see the outer skin,
When the perfection lies within;
Beauty more ravishes the touch than sight,
And seen by day, is still enjoy'd by night,
For Beauty's chiefest parts are never seen.

III

Beauty, thou active, passive good!
Who both enflam'st and cool'st our blood!
Thou glorious flow'r, whose sovereign juice
Dost wonderful effects produce,
Who, Scorpion-like, dost with thee bring
The balm that curse thy deadly sting.
What pity 'tis the fairest plant
That ever Heaven made
Should ever ever fade,
Yet Beauty we shall never want:
For she has off-sets of her own,
Which ere she dies will be as fairly blown,
And though they blossom in variety,
Yet still new Beauties will descry,
And here the fancy's govern'd by the eye.

IV

Beauty, thy Conquests still are made
Over the vigorous more than the decay'd;
And chiefly o'er those of the martial trade;
And whom thou conquer'st still thou keep'st in thrall,
Until you both together fall,
Whereas of all the Conquerors, how few
Know how to keep what they subdue?
Nay, even froward age subdues thee too.
Thy power, Beauty, has no bounds,
All sorts of men it equally confounds,
The young and old does both enslave,
The proud, meek, humble, and the brave,
And if it wounds, it only is to save.

V

Beauty, thou sister to Heav'n's glorious lamp,
Of finer clay, thou finer stamp!
Thou second light, by which we better live,
Thou better sex's vast prerogative!
Thou greatest gift that Heaven can give!
He who against thee does inveigh,
Never yet knew where Beauty lay,
And does betray
A deplorable want of sense,
Blindness, or age, or impotence;
For wit was given to no other end,
But Beauty to admire, or to commend;
And for our sufferings here below
Beauty is all the recompense we know;
'Tis then for such as cannot see,
Nor yet have other sense to friend,
Adored Beauty, thus to slander thee,
And he who calls thee madness let him be,
By his own doom from Beauty doom'd for me.





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