Where be those Roses, which so sweetned earst our eyes?
Where be those red cheekes, which fair increase did frame
No hight of honor in the kindly badge of shame,
Who hath the crimson weeds stoln from the morning skies?
How doth the coullor fade of those vermillion eyes,
Which Nature selfe did make and selfe engrave the same?
I would know by what right this palenes overcame
That hue, whose force my heart in so great thraldom ties?
Gallens adopted sonnes, who by a beaten way
Their judgements hackney on, the fault of sicknes lay:
But feeling proofe makes me say, they mistake it sure,
It is but love that makes this paper perfect white,
To write therein more fresh the storie of Delight,
Whiles Beauties reddest incke Venus for him doth stir.