George Withe......The Choice english poetry from dashing poetry

ME so oft my fancy drew
Here and there,that I ne'er knew....
Where to place desire before......
So that range it might no more....
But as he that passeth by...
Where,in all her jollity,
Flora's riches in a row......
Do in seemly order grow,
And a thousand flowers stand
Bending as to kiss his hand......
Out of which delightful store...
One he may take and no more....
Long he pausing doubteth whether...
Of those fair ones he should gather.
First the Primrose courts his eyes,
Then the Cowslip he espies...
Next the Pansy seems to woo him,
Then Carnations bow unto him;
Which whilst that enamour'd swain
From the stalk intends to strain,
(As half-fearing to be seen)
Prettily her leaves between
Peeps the Violet, pale to see
That her virtues slighted be;
Which so much his liking wins
That to seize her he begins.

Yet before he stoop'd so low
He his wanton eye did throw
On a stem that grew more high,
And the Rose did there espy.
Who, beside her previous scent,
To procure his eyes content
Did display her goodly breast,
Where he found at full exprest
All the good that Nature showers
On a thousand other flowers;
Wherewith he affected takes it,
His beloved flower he makes it,
And without desire of more
Walks through all he saw before.

So I wand'ring but erewhile
Through the garden of this Isle,
Saw rich beauties,I confess,
And in number numberless.
Yea, so differing lovely too,
That I had a world to do
Ere I could set up my rest,
Where to choose and choose the best.

Thus I fondly fear'd,till Fate
(Which I must confess in that
Did a greater favour to me
Than the world can malice do me)
Show'd to me that matchless flower,
Subject for this song of our.....
Whose perfection having eyed,
Reason instantly espied
That Desire,which ranged abroad,
There would find a period...
And no marvel if it might,
For it there hath all delight,
And in her hath nature placed....
What each several fair one graced...

Let who list,for me,advance..
The admired flowers of France,
Let who will praise and behold....
The reserved Marigold....
Let the sweet-breath'd Violet now....
Unto whom she pleaseth bow...
And the fairest Lily spread...
Where she will her golden head..
I have such a flower to wear..
That for those I do not care...

Let the young and happy swains...
Playing on the Britain plains...
Court unblamed their shepherdesses,
And with their gold curled tresses....
Toy uncensured,until I
Grudge at their prosperity.....

Let all times,both present,past,
And the age that shall be last,
Vaunt the beauties they bring forth....
I have found in one such worth,
That content I neither care
What the best before me were....
Nor desire to live and see
Who shall fair hereafter be...
For I know the hand of Nature...
Will not make a fairer creature...