Elizabeth of Bohemia
Henry Wotton, 1651

You meaner beauties of the night,
       Which poorly satisfy our eyes
     More by your number than your light,
       You common people of the skies,
     What are you, when the Moon shall rise?

     Ye violets that first appear,
       By your pure purple mantles known
     Like the proud virgins of the year
       As if the spring were all your own,--
     What are you, when the Rose is blown?

     You curious chanters of the wood
       That warble forth dame Nature's lays,
     Thinking your passions understood
       By your weak accents; what's your praise
     When Philomel her voice doth raise?

     So, when my Mistress shall be seen
       In sweetness of her looks and mind,
     By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,
       Tell me, if she were not design'd
     Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?