Alas her Lilly-hand, How it dooth me commaund? 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 dooth walke? Scarse she dooth 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.
Liue faire Amargana still extold In all my rime: Hand want Art, when I want will (55) t’vnfold her woorth diuine. But now my Muse dooth rest, Dispaire clos’d in my brest, Of the valour I sing: (60) Weake faith that no hope dooth bring.
FINIS. W. H.