The Botanical Blazon

The blazon often described beauty in botanical terms. See the Exploration Hester Pulter and the Blazon in Early Modern England. There you will find Edmund Spenser’s Sonnet 64, which might be seen as a version of the botanical blazon, describing the beloved as a garden of flowers. Here I include two lesser known versions of the botanical blazon, one by Margaret Cavendish and one that appears as part of a text in praise of a dead virgin. We might also note that the flowers in Pulter’s “The Garden” offer a kind of blazon of human women by boasting the skin that resembles their hue, the cheeks that blush like them, the eyes and noses they please, and the breasts between which they nestle.

Margaret Cavendish, A Landscape

Standing upon a hill of fancies high,
Viewing about with curiosity’s eye,
Saw several landscapes under my thoughts to lie.

Some champians* of delights where there did feed,
*open fields
Pleasures, as wethers* fat, and ewes to breed,
*rams, or male sheep
And pastures of green hops, wherein cows went,
Of probability give milk of sweet content.
Some fields, though plowed with care, unsowed did lie,
Wanting the fruitful seed, industry.
In other fields full crops of joys there growed,
Where some ripe joys fruition down had mowed.
Some blasted with ill accidents looked black,
Others, blown down with sorrow strong, lay flat.

Then did I view enclosures close to lie,
Hearts hedged about with thoughts of secrecy.
Fresh meadow of green youth did pleasant seem,
Innocency, as cowslips, grew therein.
Some ready with old age to cut for hay,
Some hay cocked high for death to take away.
Clear rivulets of health ran here and there,
No mind of sickness in them did appear,
No stones or gravel stopped their passage free;
No weeds of pain or slimy gouts could see.

Woods did present my view on the left side,
Where trees of high ambition grew great pride.
There shades of envy were made of dark spite,
Which did eclipse the fame of honor’s light.
Faults stood so close, not many beams of praise
Could enter in; spite stopped up all the ways.
But leaves of pratling tongues, which ne’er lie still,
Sometimes speak truth, although most lies they tell.

Then did I a garden of beauty view,
Where complexions of roses and lilies grew,
And violets of blue veins there growed,
Upon the banks of breasts most perfect showed.
Lips of fresh gillyflowers grew up high,
Which oft the sun did kiss as he passed by.
Hands of narcissus, perfect white were set,
The palms were curious tulips, finely streaked.

And by this garden a lovely orchard stood,
Wherein grew fruit of pleasure rare, and good.
All colored eyes grew there, as bullace* gray,
*plum
And damsons black, which do taste best, some say.
Others there were of the pure bluest grape,
And pear-plum faces, of an oval shape,
Cheeks of apricots, made red with heat,
And cherry lips, which most delight to eat.
When I had viewed this landscape round about,
I fell from fancy’s hill, and so wit’s sight went out.

Margaret Cavendish, Poems and Fancies: Written By the Right Honourable, the Lady Margaret Marchiones Newcastle (London, 1653), pp. 144-45, modernized.

John Batchiler, Upon the aforesaid Mrs. SUSANNA PERWICH

I. A Description of Her Person

Among the many female glories,
Which may be seen sometimes in stories,
Let candid readers show us where
She can be found that may compare
With her this paper now sets forth,
Far short of her rare parts and worth.
Her person comely, red and white,
Mixed curiously, gave great delight.
Pure snows, with rich vermilion’s stream,
Strawb’ries i’th’ silver dish of cream.
Fresh-blown carnations, queen-like, reigns,
While violets tincture all her veins.
Straight, proper, handsome, every feature,
Set in due place, made her a creature
Much loved. Let’s take a special view:
Look where you will, you’ll find it true.
Her dark brown hair, her double mould,*
*referring to head shape
More lovely were, than sparks of gold,
Her own mere natural curious tresses,
Outshine all adventitious dresses.
Round argent brows! whoever marks
Her smooth high forehead’s ebon arcs,
Translucent temples, through her locks,
Peer out like alabaster rocks.
From her black jetty starry eye,
Ten thousand sparkling lustres fly.
Brave gen’rous spirits siderial,
Move quick about each nimble ball.
Under a velvet coverlet,
Each glittering star doth rise and set.
Such eye-lids fittest caskets be,
For such bright gems’ effulgency.
Ouches* of gold, encircling passes,
*clasps
About this pair of burning-glasses.
Two hemispheres, with two such suns,
O’er microcosms seldom runs.
Midst these twin-flames, a marble mount,
Mounts ridge-wise up, down from her front.
On each side of which ridge you’ll spy,
Aurora’s rosy blushes lie.
Her sanguine cheeks, like two queen-apples,
Nature’s great artist neatly couples.
Her two ambrosial ruddy lips,
In deepest scarlet dye she dips.
Who views her well-set polished teeth,
Will think two ranks of pearls he seeth.
Twixt these matched milk-white ivory rows,
A sweet breathed aromatic flows,
All down ’long to her swan-like neck;
Her fine complexion hath no speck.
Her pair of round crowned rising hills,
Each moment with new panting fills.
Her sleek soft downy checkered wrists,
Small azure threads finely entwists.
Her lily hands, long woodbine fingers,
Hang ever quivering, never lingers,
In trembling strokes, which always she
Tunes into sweetest harmony.
I scarce e’er see them, but the sound,
Of music seems thence to rebound.
No unions,* no choice jewels are
*pearls
Found anywhere, that may compare,
With th’very nails, or joints, or bones,
That her ten sister-fingers owns.
You’d scarce know which are richest things,
Her knuckle bones or diamond rings.
More curious is each satin limb,
Than th’ silken trails that cover him.
Thus if you take her every way,
How lovely she’s! what shall I say?
Her head, her face, her every part,
Most graceful was, there need no art,
Be used at all her to adorn
With paints or pearls, she being born,
Nature’s own masterpiece: white skin,
Rose lips, fair breasts, sweet smiles, and in
Her gestures such a compound grace,
Made her to beautify the place
Where’er she came; her goodly look,
At first sight the beholders took,
And won their hearts immediately,
With her thenceforth to live and die.

John Batchiler, The virgins pattern, in the exemplary life and lamented death of Mrs. Susanna Perwich, daughter of Mr. Robert Perwich, who departed this life … July 3, 1661 (London, 1661), sigs. D4r-D5v, modernized.