Mongst the worlds wonders, there doth yet remain <br />One greater than the rest, that's all those o're again, <br />And her own self beside: A Lady, whose soft breast <br />Is with vast honours soul and virtues life possest. <br />Fair as original light first from the chaos shot, <br />When day in virgin-beams triumph'd, and night was not, <br />And as that breath infus'd in the new-breather good, <br />When ill unknown was dumb, and bad not understood; <br />Chearful, as that aspect at this world's finishing, <br />When cherubims clapp'd wings, and th' sons of Heaven did sing; <br />Chast as th' Arabian bird, who all the ayr denyes, <br />And ev'n in flames expires, when with her selfe she lyes. <br />Oh! she's as kind as drops of new faln April showers, <br />That on each gentle breast spring fresh perfuming flowers; <br />She's constant, gen'rous, fixt; she's calm, she is the all <br />We can of vertue, honour, faith, or glory call, <br />And she is (whom I thus transmit to endless fame) <br />Mistresse oth' world and me, and LAURA is her name.<br /><br />Richard Lovelace<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/female-glory/
