The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/The Waiting-maid
THE WAITING MAID.
Thy Maid! ah! find some nobler themeWhereon thy doubts to place;Nor by a low suspect blasphemeThe glories of thy face.
Alas! she makes thee shine so fair,So exquisitely bright,That her dim lamp must disappearBefore thy potent light.
Three hours each morn in dressing theeMaliciously are spent;And make that beauty tyranny,That's else a civil government.
Th' adorning thee with so much artIs but a barbarous skill;’Tis like the poisoning of a dartToo apt before to kill.
The ministering angels none can see;’Tis not their beauty' or face,For which by men they worshipp'd be;But their high office and their place,Thou art my Goddess, my Saint she;I pray to her, only to pray to thee.