Her cheeks, what are they but two roses fresh, Which with the great archangel converse hold? Two ruddy pages in which boys have read Their earliest lesson in the lore of love? Nay, they are likest to the rising sun, From which the earth illumination draws. The little mole upon the lady’s cheek Is but a foil to set her beauty off; ’Tis but a sign of noble ancestry, A seed of beauty on a field of flowers. There never fails on every countenance Some line or feature that commands the whole; No mole can such pre-eminence assert; It is her eyes that captivate our gaze. The ears with pearls that not a blemish own Reflected on the sea their beauty show; They are two roses upon which the dew Of dazzling pearls is radiantly set. The lips which quite eclipse the world’s delights Are like the holiness which Mary showed, They are like rubies which attract men’s souls And touch their spirit e’en without a word. And if I should make known those lips’ delight, What shall I say in reference to the mouth? ’Tis true that God created worlds from naught. But I am uncreative, vain my words. The tongue is like a singing nightingale Which nests above a murmuring waterfall; It is a bird whose words are brilliant As are the rubies in a jewel case. A wise interpreter whose words are true, Revealing all the secrets of the heart, The teeth are nothing but the dewy pearls, Which glitter on the rosebuds of the grove. They are the precious stones that form a link Between two rows of ruddy carbuncle; They are the jewels in a jewel case, Which in concealment have their radiance hid. Their sugared sweetness every sweet excels; And even honey doubly sweet outvie. The chin is like a beauty apple hung, With ever-changing charms it wins the eye; The apple is the fairest fruit of all. The Rose’s chin is more desirable, And as the quince that hangs unplucked, she says, “I am the fruit of beauty; pluck me not.” The dimple on the chin is like a well; And he who falls therein must captive bide. The chin is like to beauty’s tambourine, On which the dangling locks their soft blows ply; And when their sporting pattering they begin It is the march of beauty that they sound. Her neck is like a taper camphor white And darkened with the film of falling locks. Without is light, within a burning fire, A flame of pride and yet of fickleness. Most it resembles some white cloud of heaven, A silver column set in beauty’s hall. And we may well divine her arms are like The handles of some vase in silver wrought. By the trumpeter of these fair arms A thousand heads have fallen in blood and wrath; Hers are the whitest arms in all the land, White as the hand of Moses once became, Her arm rests in a sleeve it fills with light;