TO HIS WELL-TIMBRED MISTRESS by THOMAS RANDOLPH

SWEET, heard you not fame's latest breath rehearse
How I left hewing blocks to hack a verse,
Now grown the master-log, while others be
But shavings and the chips of poetry?
And thus I saw deal-boards of beauty forth,
To make my love a warehouse of her worth.
Her legs are heart of oak, and columns stand
To bear the amorous bulk; then, Muse, command
That beech be work'd for thighs unto those legs,
Turn'd round and carv'd, and joined fast with pegs.
Contrive her belly round, a dining-room,
When love and beauty will a-feasting come,
Another storey make from waist to chin,
With breasts like ports to nest young sparrows in.
Then place the garret of her head above,
Thatch'd with a yellow hair to keep in love.
Thus have I finish'd beauty's master-prize,
Were but the glazier here to make her eyes.
Then, Muse, her outworks cease to raise,
To work within, and wainscot her with praise.

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