Wotton, Henry (1568 - 1639) On his Mistris, the Queen of Bohemia You meaner Beauties of the Night, That poorly satisfie our Eies More by your number, then your light, You Common-people of the Skies; What are you when the Sun shall rise? You Curious Chanters of the Wood, That warble forth Dame Natures layes, Thinking your Voyces understood By your weake accents; what's your praise When Philomell her voyce shal raise? You Violets, that first apeare, By your pure purpel mantels knowne, Like the proud Virgins of the yeare, As if the Spring were all your own; What are you when the Rose is blowne? So, when my Mistris shal be seene In Form and Beauty of her mind, By Vertue first, then Choyce a Queen, Tell me, if she were not design'd Th' Eclypse and Glory of her kind?