Sonnet 76

Those lookes, whose beames my ioy, whose motion is delight,
That face whose lecture shewes what perfect Beautie is:
That presence which doth giue darke hearts a liuing light,
That grace, which Venus weepes that she her selfe did misse.
That hand, which without touch, holdes more than Atlas might,
Those lips, which makes deathes pay a meane prise for a kisse:
That skin, whose passing hue scornes this poore tearme of white,
Those words that doe sublime the quintessence of blisse.
That voice which makes the soule plant himselfe in the eares,
That conuersation sweet, where such high comforts be:
As constru'd in true speech, the name of heauen it beares.
Makes me in my best thoughts, and quiet iudgements see,
That in no more but this I mightt be fully blest:
Yet ah, my mayden Muse doth blush to tell the best.