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. 1633 Approx. 5 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2008-09 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A08909 STC 19186 ESTC S102329 99838117 99838117 2476

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A08909) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 2476) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1475-1640 ; 1076:05) 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. 1 sheet ([1] p.) : ill. for Thomas Lambert, Printed at London : [1633] Publication date from STC. In two parts; woodcut illustrations at head of each part. Reproductions of the original in the British Library.

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 eng Ballads, English -- Early works to 1800. 2007-08 Assigned for keying and markup 2007-08 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2007-09 Sampled and proofread 2007-09 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2008-02 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
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.