This morning, timely rapt with holy fire, <br />I thought to form unto my zealous Muse <br />What kind of creature I could most desire, <br />To honour, serve, and love; as poets use. <br />I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise, <br />Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great; <br />I meant the day-star should not brighter rise, <br />Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat. <br />I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet, <br />Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride; <br />I meant each softest virtue there should meet, <br />Fit in that softer bosom to reside. <br />Only a learnèd and a manly soul <br />I purposed her; that should, with even powers, <br />The rock, the spindle, and the shears control <br />Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours. <br />Such when I meant to feign, and wished to see, <br />My Muse bade <br />Bedford <br />write, and that was she.<br /><br />Ben Jonson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-lucy-countess-of-bedford/
