Ben Jonson (1572–1637)

IT was a beauty that I saw

So pure, so perfect, as the frame

Of all the universe was lame

To that one figure, could I draw,

Or give least line of it a law!

A skein of silk without a knot,

A fair march made without a halt,

A curious form without a fault,

A printed book without a blot,

All beauty, and without a spot!