Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 77
Those looks, whose beams be joy, whose motion is
delight;
That face, whose lecture shows what perfect beauty is;
That presence, which doth give dark hearts a living light;
That grace, which Venus weeps that she herself doth miss;
That
hand, which without touch
holds more than Atlas might:
Those lips, which make death’s pay a mean price for a kiss;
That skin, whose past-praise hue scorns this poor term of ‘white’;
Those words, which do sublime the quintessence of bliss;
That
voice, which makes the soul plant
himself in the ears:
That conversation sweet, where such high comforts be,
As construed in true speech, the name of heaven it
bears,
Makes me in my best thoughts and quiet’st judgment see
That
in no more but these I might
be fully blessed:
Yet
ah, my maiden muse doth blush to tell
the rest.