A peerelesse Paragon, OR▪
Few so chast, so beautious or so faire,
for with my love I think none can compare.
To the tune of the mother beguild the daughter.
IN times of yore, sure men did doate,
and beauty neuer knew:
Else women were not of that note,
as daily come to view.
For read of all the faces then
that did most brightly shine,
Be iudg'd by all true iudging men,
they were not like to mine.
King Pryam loued Hecuba,
and thought her wondrous faire,
But had he séene mine, I dare say
there had béene no compare.
Stout Hector held Andromicha
a stately beautious Quéene,
But shes, no Troylus Cressida,
yet faire as ere was séene.
Nay all the faces Iupiter
did like and phansie most,
Are to her substance shadowes méere
of whom I make my boast:
Surely you wonder what she is,
whose beauty I proclaime,
Ile tell you truely, and not misse
though she be without name.
My loue shée is the Non-pareil
of all that ere was séene,
And had not Venus come i'th way
shée had béen beauties Quéene:
Her comely feature, louely lookes,
I will describe at large,
God Cupid puts her in his bookes,
and of this Iem takes charge.
The Grecian Helen was a Moore,
compar'd with my deare Saint,
The faire fac'd Hyren's beauty poore,
and yet shée does not paynt,
Andromeda whom Perseus lou'd,
was blacker then the night,
Her lineaments so well approu'd
in praise of them ile write.
Quéene Vesta for her chastitie
with her may not compare,
Nor Lucrece for her honestie,
shée's like the Phenix rare:
A Sommers day, I could commend
her parts were't nere so long,
But yet her parts so farre extend,
I feare to doe her wrong.
The second part, To the same tune.
BUt yet my tongue cannot refraine
to set her praises forth;
Then list, and ile describe her plaine
and show you her true worth:
Her haire not like the golden wire
but black as any Crow;
Her beetle browes, all men admire,
her forehead wondrous low.
Her squinting, staring, goggle eyes
poore children doe affright,
Her nose is of the Sarazens size,
oh shée's a matchlesse wight.
Her eares so hound like, that they fall
vpon her shoulder bone,
I know not truly how to call
her, shée's such a worthy one.
Her ouen mouth, wide open stands,
her téeth like rotten pease;
Her blabber lips my heart commands,
her neck all bit with fleas:
Her tawnie duggs like two great hills,
hang Sow-like to her wast,
Her bodie's round as a wind mill,
and yet I hold her chast.
Her belly tun-like to behold,
no more shall be exprest,
But if the truth were plainely told,
I'm sure they are the best:
Her brawnie blind chéeks plump and round
as any Horse of war,
Her speckled thighs they are not sound
her knées like hoggs heads are.
Her leggs are like the Elephants,
the calfe and small all one,
Her ancles they together méet,
and still knock bone to bone;
Her pretty foot not 'boue th'eightéenes
so splaid as neuer was,
An excellent vsher for a man
that walks the dewy grasse.
Her shoulders are so Camel-like,
shée'd make an excellent Porter,
I vow I neuer knew her like.
if any man consort her.
No shoulder of mutton like her hand
for thicknes, breadth, and fat,
With a scuruy mange vpon her wrest,
oh Ioue how I loue that.
Thus haue you heard my Loue set forth
and yet no flatterie vs'd,
Your iudgement, is shée not of worth,
let her not be abus'd,
If any to her haue a mind,
hée wrongs mée many waies;
For as shees beautious, so shées kind,
and here conclude my praise.
FINIS.
Printed at London for Thomas Lambert.