Fayre is my loue, when her fayre golden heares, <br />with the loose wynd ye wauing chance to marke: <br />fayre when the rose in her red cheekes appeares, <br />or in her eyes the fyre of loue does sparke. <br />Fayre when her brest lyke a rich laden barke, <br />with pretious merchandize she forth doth lay: <br />fayre whe[n] that cloud of pryde, which oft doth dark <br />her goodly light with smiles she driues away. <br />But fayrest she, when so she doth display, <br />the gate with pearles and rubyes richly dight: <br />throgh which her words so wise do make their way <br />to beare the message of her gentle spright, <br />The rest be works of natures wonderment, <br />but this the worke of harts astonishment.<br /><br />Edmund Spenser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-lxxxi-3/
