You meaner beauties of the night, <br />That poorly satisfy our eyes <br />More by your number than your light; <br />You common people of the skies, <br />What are you when the sun shall rise? <br /> <br />You curious chanters of the wood, <br />That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, <br />Thinking your voices understood <br />By your weak accents; what's your praise <br />When Philomel her voice shall raise? <br /> <br />You violets that first appear, <br />By your pure purple mantles known, <br />Like the proud virgins of the year, <br />As if the spring were all your own; <br />What are you when the rose is blown? <br /> <br />So, when my mistress shall be seen <br />In form and beauty of her mind, <br />By virtue first, then choice, a queen, <br />Tell me, if she were not design'd <br />Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?<br /><br />Sir Henry Wotton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/you-meaner-beauties-of-the-night/
