Whenas her lute is tunéd to her voice, <br />The air grows proud for honour of that sound, <br />And rocks do leap to show how they rejoice <br />That in the earth such music should be found. <br />Whenas her hair more worth, more pale than gold, <br />Like silver thread lies waiting in the air, <br />Diana-like she looks, but yet more bold; <br />Cruel in chase, more chaste and yet more fair. <br />Whenas she smiles, the clouds for envy breaks; <br />She Jove in pride encounters with a check; <br />The sun doth shine for joy whenas she speaks; <br />Thus heaven and earth do homage at her beck. <br />Yet all these graces, blots, not graces are, <br />If you, my love, of love do take no care.<br /><br />Giles Fletcher The Elder<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/licia-sonnets-31/
