In that sweet seat the boy doth sport: Loth, I must leave his chief resort. For such a use the world hath gotten, The best things still must be forgotten. Yet never shall my song omit Her thighs for Ovid’s song more fit; Which flanked with two sugared flanks, Lift up her stately swelling banks; That Albion cliffs in whiteness pass; With haunches smooth as looking-glass. But bow all knees, now of her knees My tongue doth tell what fancy sees. The knots of joy, the gems of love, Whose motion makes all graces move. Whose bough incav’d doth yield such sight, Like cunning painter shadowed white. The gartring place with child-like sign, Shows easy print in metal fine. But then again the flesh doth rise In her brave calves like crystal skies. Whose Atlas is a smallest small, More white than whitest bone of all. Thereout steals out that round clean foot This noble cedar’s precious root: In show and scent pale violets, Whose step on earth all beauty sets. But back unto her back, my Muse, Where Leda’s swan his feathers mews, Along whose ridge such bones are met, Like comfits round in marchpane set. Her shoulders be like to white doves, Perching within square royal rooves, Which leaded are with silver skin, Passing the hate-spot, emerlin. And thence those arms derived are; The Phoenix wings are not so rare For faultless length, and stainless hue. Ah woe is me, my woes renew. Now course doth lead me to her hand Of my first love the fatal band. {183} Where whiteness doth for ever sit: Nature herself enamell’d it. For therewith strange compact doth lie Warm snow, moist pearl, soft ivory. There fall those sapphire-coloured brooks, Which conduit-like with curious crooks, Sweet islands make in that sweet land, As for the fingers of the hand, The bloody shafts of Cupid’s war, With amethysts they beaded are. Thus hath each part his beauty’s part: But how the graces do impart, To all her limbs a special grace, Becoming every time and place, Which doth even beauty beautify, And most bewitch the wretched eye. How all this is but a fair inn Of fairer guests, which dwell therein. Of whose high praise, and praiseful bliss, Goodness the pen, and Heaven paper is: The ink immortal fame doth lend: As I began, so must I end. No tongue can her perfection tell, In whose each part all tongues may dwell.