Elegie VIII - The Comparison As the sweet sweat of Roses in a Still, As that which from chaf’d muskats pores doth trill, As the Almighty Balm of th'early East, Such are the sweat drops of my Mistris breast, And on her brow her skin such lustre sets, They seeme no sweat drops, but pearle coronets. Ranke sweaty froth thy Mistresse’s brow defiles, Like spermatique issue of ripe menstruous boiles, Or like the skumme, which, by needs lawless law Enforc’d, Sanserra's starvèd men did draw From parboild shooes, and bootes, and all the rest Which were with any soveraigne fatnes blest, And like vile lying stones in saffrond tinne, Or warts, or wheales, they hang upon her skinne. Round as the world's her head, on every side, Like to the fatall Ball which fell on Ide, Or that whereof God had such jealousie, As, for the ravishing thereof we die. Thy head is like a rough-hewne statue of jeat, Where marks for eyes, nose, mouth, are yet scarce set; Like the first Chaos, or flat seeming face Of Cynthia, when th'earths shadowes her embrace. Like Proserpines white beauty-keeping chest, Or Jove's best fortune's urne, is her fair brest. Thine's like worme eaten trunkes, cloth’d in seals skin, Or grave, that's dust without, and stinke within. And like that slender stalke, at whose end stands The wood-bine quivering, are her armes and hands. Like rough bark'd elmboughes, or the russet skin Of men late scurg’d for madnes, or for sinne, Like Sun-parch'd quarters on the citie gate, Such is thy tann'd skins lamentable state. And like a bunch of ragged carrets stand The short swolne fingers of thy gouty hand. Then like the Chymicks masculine equall fire, Which in the Lymbecks warme wombe doth inspire Into th'earths worthlesse durt a soule of gold, Such cherishing heat her best lov’d part doth hold. Thine's like the dread mouth of a fired gunne, Or like hot liquid metalls newly runne Into clay moulds, or like to that Ætna Where round about the grasse is burnt away. Are not your kisses then as filthy, and more, As a worme sucking an envenom'd sore? Doth not thy feareful hand in feeling quake, As one which gath'ring flowers, still feares a snake? Is not your last act harsh, and violent, As when a Plough a stony ground doth rent? So kisse good Turtles, so devoutly nice Are Priests in handling reverent sacrifice, And such in searching wounds the Surgeon is, As wee, when wee embrace, or touch, or kisse. Leave her, and I will leave comparing thus, She, and comparisons are odious.