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C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.


By Thomas Lodge (1558–1625)

LIKE to the clear in highest sphere,

Where all imperial glory shines,

Of selfsame color is her hair,

Whether unfolded or in twines.

Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,

Refining heaven by every wink;

The gods do fear whenas they glow,

And I do tremble when I think.

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud

That beautifies Aurora’s face;

Or like the silver crimson shroud

That Phœbus’s smiling looks doth grace.

Her lips are like two budded roses,

Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh;

Within which bounds she balm incloses,

Apt to entice a deity.

Her neck like to a stately tower,

Where Love himself imprisoned lies,

To watch for glances every hour

From her divine and sacred eyes.

With Orient pearl, with ruby red,

With marble white, with sapphire blue,

Her body everywhere is fed,

Yet soft in touch and sweet in view.

Nature herself her shape admires;

The gods are wounded in her sight;

And Love forsakes his heavenly fires,

And at her eyes his brand doth light.