Sonnet XXXI: When as her lute is tuned to

When as her lute is tuned to her voyce,
The aire growes proude, for honour of that sound:
And rockes doe leape, to shewe howe they rejoyce,
That in the earth, such Musicke should be found.
When as her haire, more worth, more pale, then golde,
Like silver threed, lies waffting in the ayre:
Diana like she lookes, but yet more bolde:
Cruell in chase, more chaste, and yet more fayre.
When as she smyles, the cloudes for envie breakes,
She Iove in pride encounters with a checke:
The Sunne doeth shine for joye when as she speakes:
Thus heaven, and earth doe homage at her becke.
Yet all these graces blottes, not graces are:
Yf you my love, of love doe doe take no care.