Wittes Pilgrimage, Sonnet 1

ORE those faire Alpes, thy Brests, (that naked lie
Towards the blushing heau'n of thy bright face)
When as I trauell with my wandring Eye
The Snowes twixt Them, and That, do let her pace:
For, passing through the Valley of thy Neck
Mine Eie there sticks, as drowned in those snowes,
Yet, thy kind heate the same doth countercheck:
So, to thy Chins faire Cliff; on Milk, she flowes!
Where, being come, she breathes, and looketh back,
Dazled to see those passed-Beauties Deepes!
So, there she rests, as on the rock of Wrack:
With sense whereof twixt Feare, and Hope she weepes:
And, dares not higher looke, sith thine Eyes Beames
Draw clouds thereto, and turne those clouds to Streames.