You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth Dame Nature’s lays,
Thinking your passions understood
By your weak accents; what’s your praise,
  When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own;
  What are you when the rose is blown?

So, when my mistress shall be seen
In form and beauty of her mind,
By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,
Tell me if she were not design’d
  Th’ eclipse and glory of her kind?

1845 Edition.

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Transcriber’s Note

   Sonnet numbers found in the original text have been added
   in the Table of Contents for consistency.