THe glorious image of the makers beautie, <br />My souerayne faynt, the Idoll of my thought, <br />dare not henceforth aboue the bounds of dewtie, <br />t'accuse of pride, or rashly blame for ought. <br />For being as she is diuinely wrought, <br />and of the brood of Angels heuenly borne: <br />and with the crew of blessed Saynts vpbrought, <br />each of which did her with theyr guifts adorne; <br />The bud of ioy, the blossome of the morne, <br />the beame of light, whom mortal eyes admyre: <br />what reason is it then but she should scorne, <br />base things that to her loue too bold aspire? <br />Such heauenly formes ought rather worshipt be, <br />then dare be lou'd by men of meane degree.<br /><br />Edmund Spenser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-lxi-2/
