Among the gathering of Venus's doves,
One among them doth challenge Her fair field;
In mine heart her heavenly image sit,
Her golden hair like threads play'd her breath!
Thrice fairer than Venus herself I'd say,
Sweet above compare to all winter's sweet;
Stain to all nymph, more lovely than heaven,
Nature that made thee, strife at with herself!
O, how quick is love to this poor old soul!
No comments:
Post a Comment