Sonnet LII: O sugred talke, where with my thoughtes

O sugred talke, where with my thoughtes doe live:
O browes loves Trophee, and my senses shine:
O charming smyles, that death or life can give:
O heavenly kisses from a mouth devine:
O wreaths too strong, and tramels made of hayre:
O pearles inclosed in an Ebon pale,
O Rose and Lillyes in a field most fayre,
Where modest whyte, doth make the red seeme pale.
O voyce whose accents live within my heart,
O heavenly hand that more then Atlas holds,
O sighes perfum'd, that can release my smart.
O happy they, whome in her armes she folds.
Nowe if you aske where dwelleth all this blisse,
Seeke out my love, and she will shew you this.