To a Lady admiring Herself in a Looking-Glass

Thomas Randolph (1605–1635)

FAIR lady, when you see the grace

Of beauty in your looking-glass;

A stately forehead, smooth and high,

And full of princely majesty;

A sparkling eye no gem so fair,

Whose lustre dims the Cyprian star;

A glorious cheek, divinely sweet,

Wherein both roses kindly meet;

A cherry lip that would entice

Even gods to kiss at any price;

You think no beauty is so rare

That with your shadow might compare;

That your reflection is alone

The thing that men most dote upon.

Madam, alas! your glass doth lie,

And you are much deceived; for I

A beauty know of richer grace

(Sweet, be not angry), ’t is your face.

Hence, then, O, learn more mild to be,

And leave to lay your blame on me:

If me your real substance move,

When you so much your shadow love,

Wise nature would not let your eye

Look on her own bright majesty;

Which, had you once but gazed upon,

You could, except yourself, love none:

What then you cannot love, let me,

That face I can, you cannot see.

Now you have what to love, you ’ll say,

What then is left for me, I pray?

My face, sweet heart, if it please thee;

That which you can, I cannot see,

So either love shall gain his due,

Yours, sweet, in me, and mine in you.