"On this attracting Face our Pilgrim throws / His eyes, his Soul thorow those windows goes"

— Pordage, Samuel (bap. 1633, d. c. 1691)

Place of Publication
Printed by T. R. for Lodowick Lloyd
"On this attracting Face our Pilgrim throws / His eyes, his Soul thorow those windows goes"
Metaphor in Context
I dare not venture here for to depaint,
The Beauties of that Face; the World's too scant
To yield materials, and I words should want,
How can her all-surpassing Form be penn'd,
When her Idea none can comprehend?
The soul that sees her, feels her, and her worth
Is better felt than can be spoken forth.
The fulvid Gold which is esteem'd so rare,
But the reflection of her golden Hair
Is; All the Silver did its brightnesse get,
And silveriz'd was when it touch'd her feet.
The Chrystal Rivers were like Ink, she gave
Them clearnesse when she did her finger lave
In their dark streams: A drop fell from her Hand,
Which being gave to the clear Crystals; and
Th' oriental Pearls. She look'd upon the Sun
And ever since she with that splendor shon.
She glanc'd her eye upon the Night's fair Queen,
She caught that glance, e'r since she fair hath been.
A spark flew from her Heavn'ly eye, it seems
Tellus snatch't that which essence gave to Gemms.
The ayr permitted was to kisse her Hand,
Who ever since its sweetnesse has retain'd.
Over the Globe stood black triumphing Death,
Till she but tasted of her sacred breath,
Prolific strait she was, and from her womb
Oceans of Heards, of Trees, of Herbs did come.
By it still all things live: The Pink, the Rose
And each sweet Flower that on Tellus grows,
Receive from her their odoriferous Fumes,
Which emanation from her Body comes.
Some of her Beauty down she flung below
Which all things caught that now do Beauty show.
Roses and Rubies which do rarely shine,
Are but umbrella's to her lips divine:
Those Seas of Claret in the azure Skies
Seen, when bright Sol down in the Ocean lies,
Or Tyrian blushes, if you them compare
To what buds in her cheeks meer deadnesse are:
As far below the Beauty and the Blisse
Seen there, as Earth to th' highest Heav'n is.
How can a Pen, or Pencil then depaint
Her; without whom all things do beauty want!
Her own hand 'twas that thus her self did limn,
And by APOCALYPSIS sent it him.
On this attracting Face our Pilgrim throws
His eyes, his Soul thorow those windows goes
With so much joy that all her faculties
Intentively assembled in his eyes,
All other parts left destitute; in this
Capital City Oculipolis
The Soul and all her train are seated; by
That Beauty drawn into an Extasie.
Searching "soul" and "window" in HDIS (Poetry)
Samuel Pordage, Mundorum Explicatio Wherein are Couched the Mysteries of the External, Internal, and Eternal worlds (London: T.R. for Lodowick Lloyd, 1661). <Link to EEBO>
Date of Entry

The Mind is a Metaphor is authored by Brad Pasanek, Assistant Professor of English, University of Virginia.