What tongue can her perfection tell, In whose each part all tongues may dwell? Her hair fine threads of finest gold, In curled knots man’s thought to hold: But that her forehead says, “in me A whiter beauty you may see”; Whiter indeed, more white than snow, Which on cold winter’s face doth grow: That doth present those even brows, Whose equal line their angles bows; Like to the moon when after change Her horned head abroad doth range: And arches be two heavenly lids, Whose wink each bold attempt forbids. For the black stars those spheres contain, The matchless pair, even praise doth stain. No lamp whose light by art is got, No sun which shines, and seeth not, Can liken them without all peer, Save one as much as other clear: Which only thus unhappy be, Because themselves they cannot see. Her cheeks with kindly claret spread, Aurora-like new out of bed; Or like the fresh queen-apple’s side, Blushing at sight of Phoebus’ pride. {181} Her nose, her chin pure ivory wears: No purer than the pretty ears. So that therein appears some blood Like wine and milk that mingled stood: In whose incirclets if ye gaze, Your eyes may tread a lover’s maze. But with such turns the voice to stray, No talk untaught can find the way. The tip no jewel needs to wear; The tip is jewel of the ear. But who those ruddy lips can miss, Which blessed still themselves to kiss? Rubies, cherries, and roses new, In worth, in taste, in perfect hue: Which never part, but that they show Of precious pearl the double row; The second-sweetly fenced ward, Her heavenly-dewed tongue to guard, Whence never word in vain did flow. Fair under those doth stately grow, The handle of this precious work, The neck in which strange graces lurk. Such be I think the sumptuous towers, Which skill doth make in princes’ bowers. So good assay invites the eye, A little downward to espy, The lively clusters of her breasts, Of Venus’ babe the wanton nests: Like pommels round of marble clear; Where azur’d veins well mix’d appear, With dearest tops of porphyry. Betwixt these two a way doth lie, A way more worthy beauty’s fame, Than that which bears the Milky name. This leads into the joyous field, Which only still doth lilies yield: But lilies such whose native smell, The Indians’ odors doth excel. Waist it is called, for it doth waste Men’s lives, until it be embrac’d. There may one see, and yet not see Her ribs in white all armed be, More white than Neptune’s foamy face, When struggling rocks he would embrace. In those delights the wand’ring thought Might of each side astray be brought, But that her navel doth unite, In curious circle busy sight; {182} A dainty seal of virgin-wax, Where nothing but impression lacks. Her belly their glad sight doth fill, Justly entitled Cupid’s hill. A hill most fit for such a master, A spotless mine of alabaster. Like alabaster fair and sleek, But soft and supple, satin-like,