Sonnet 21

ALl other Beauties howsoe're they shine
In Haires more bright than is the golden Ore,
Or cheeks more faire than fairest Eglantine,
Or hands like hers that comes the Sun before:
Match'd with that Heavenly Hew, and shape divine,
With those deare Stars which my weak thoughts adore,
Look but as shaddows, or if they be more,
It is in this, that they are like to thine.
Who sees those Eyes, their force that doth not prove?
Who gazeth on the dimple of that chin,
And finds not Venus Son entrench'd therein,
Or hath not sence, or knows not what is Love?
To see thee had Narcissus had the grace,
He would have died with wondring on thy Face.