Those looks, whose beams be joy, whose motion is delight, <br />That face, whose lecture shows what perfect beauty is: <br />That presence, which doth give dark hearts a living light: <br />That grace, which Venus weeps that she herself doth miss: <br /> <br />That hand, which without touch holds more than Atlas might: <br />Those lips, which make death's pay a mean price for a kiss: <br />That skin, skin, whose passe-praise hue scorns this poor term of white: <br />Those words, which do sublime the quintessence of bliss: <br /> <br />That voice, which makes the soul plant himself in the ears: <br />That conversation sweet, where such high comforts be, <br />As constru'd in true speech, the name of heav'n it bears, <br /> <br />Makes me in my best thought and quiet'st judgment see, <br />That in no more but these I might be fully blest: <br />Yet ah, my maiden Muse doth blush to tell the rest.<br /><br />Sir Philip Sidney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-77-those-looks-whose-beams-be-joy/
