Softer silke none can be: (30) And whiter milke none can see.
Circes wand is not so straite, as is Her body small: But two pillers beare the waight (35) of this maiestick Hall. Those be I you assure, Of Alablaster pure, Polish’d fine in each part: (40) Ne’re Nature yet shewed like Art.
How shall I her pretty tread expresse when she doth walke? Scarse she doth the Primerose head (45) depresse, or tender stalke Of blew-veind Violets, Whereon her foote she sets. Vertuous she is, for we finde, (50) In body faire, beauteous minde.