My lady woke upon a morning fair, <br />What time Apollo’s chariot takes the skies, <br />And, fain to fill with arrows from her eyes <br />His empty quiver, Love was standing there: <br />I saw two apples that her breast doth bear <br />None such the close of the Hesperides <br />Yields; nor hath Venus any such as these, <br />Nor she that had of nursling Mars the care. <br /> <br />Even such a bosom, and so fair it was, <br />Pure as the perfect work of Phidias, <br />That sad Andromeda’s discomfiture <br />Left bare, when Perseus passed her on a day, <br />And pale as Death for fear of Death she lay, <br />With breast as marble cold, as marble pure.<br /><br />Pierre de Ronsard<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-his-ladies-waking/
