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 moon shall rise? <br /> <br />You curious chanters of the wood, <br /> That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, <br />Thinking your passions 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/elizabeth-of-bohemia/
