What's she, so late from Penshurst come,
More gorgeous than the mid-day sun,
—That all the world amazes?
Sure 'tis some angel from above,
Or 'tis the Cyprian Queen of Love
—Attended by the Graces.

Or is't not Juno, Heaven's great dame,
Or Pallas armed, as on she came
—To assist the Greeks in fight,
Or Cynthia, that huntress bold,
Or from old Tithon's bed so cold,
—Aurora chasing night?

No, none of those, yet one that shall
Compare, perhaps exceed them all,
—For beauty, wit, and birth;
As good as great, as chaste as fair,
A brighter nymph none breathes the air,
—Or treads upon the earth.

'Tis Dorothèe, a maid high-born,
And lovely as the blushing morn,
—Of noble Sidney's race;
Oh! could you see into her mind,
The beauties there locked-up outshine
—The beauties of her face.

Fair Dorothea, sent from heaven
To add more wonders to the seven,
—And glad each eye and ear,
Crown of her sex, the Muse's port,
The glory of our English court,
—The brightness of our sphere.

To welcome her the Spring breathes forth
Elysian sweets, March strews the earth
—With violets and posies,
The sun renews his darting fires,
April puts on her best attires,
—And May her crown of roses.

Go, happy maid, increase the store
Of graces born with you, and more
—Add to their number still;
So neither all-consuming age,
Nor envy's blast, nor fortune's rage
—Shall ever work you ill.