Or plainly more to answere your demaune, (30) Hir cheekes are Roses, ouercast with lawne.
Hir louely Lip, doth others all excell, On whom it please (ay me) a kisse bestoe, He neuer tasteth afterward of woe, Such speciall vertue in the toutch doth dwell: (35) The colour tempred of the morning red, Wherewith Aurora doth adorne hir head.
Hir ample Chest, an heauenly plot of ground, The space betweene, a Paradise at least, Parnassus like, hir twifolde mounting breast, (40) Hir heauenly graces, heapingly abound, Loue spreads his conquering colours in this feeld, Whereto the race of Gods and men doe yeeld.
The other parts, which custom doth conceale, Within a sarcenet vaile thou must conuay, (45) So due proportion well discerne I may, What though the garment doe not all reueale, The shadow of a naked thigh may fraight, His head brim full, hath any fine conceit.
Before hir Feete, vpon a Marble stone, (50) Inflamed with the Sunbeames of hir eie, Depaint my hart that burneth passionately, And if thy pensill can set downe such mone, Thy picture selfe, will teeling + semblance make, Of ruthe and pitie for my torments sake.
(55) How now Apelles, are thy senses tane? Hast drawne a picture, or drawne out thy hart? Wilt thou be held a Master of thine art, And temper colours tending to thy bane? Happie my hart, that in hir Sunshine fries, (60) Aboue thy hap that in hir shadow dies.