ALIUD or
The Superlative Transcendent Jean.
To the tune of, Polwars Hunting.
|
O Jeanie's a Lass, that doth surpass
|
all Ladies [th]at are [?]
|
wish that it might, seem [?]o[?] he[?]
|
to grant unto me a reviving,
|
By her loving smiles, which are unto me
|
more sweet than the Balm or Honey,
|
And much more desir'd than Jewls or Pearls,
|
or treasures of Gold, or of Money.
|
My heart, I confess, my Jean doth possess,
|
O! how will I gain her affection?
|
She doth me provoke, the Muse to invoke,
|
how I may describe her perfection,
|
Yea, vertue itself in her breast doth dwell,
|
with graces also in great number:
|
She's modest and chast she's pious and grave,
|
with other endowments an hunder.
|
Which passeth the Pen, of Angels & Men,
|
to write them at large, or express them;
|
No proof can be made, till enjoyments be had,
|
then he who enjoys must confess them
|
To be far beyond whatever he thought,
|
or could be imagin'd by any,
|
Yea, Poets may write, Orators may speak,
|
by Orations and Poems many.
|
But what might be said to the praise of this Maid
|
far short they would come, I assure them,
|
Yea, also I might swear that the first sight
|
of her charming face would allure them:
|
But lest that I should by my bluddering pen
|
her vertue Eclipse, and her beauty;
|
Il[?]ore forbear, her more to commend,
|
[?]d[?] duty [?]
|
|
|
|
|
|