The Triumph of Charis. By Jonson, Benjamin. See the chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the care love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty; And enamoured, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. Do but look on her eyes; they do light All that Love's world compriseth! Do but look on her hair; it is bright As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her! And from her arched brows, such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the element's strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touched it? Ha' you felt the wool o' the beaver? Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier? Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag o'the bee? O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!