22.07.2007, 13:23
All other beauties, howsoe'er they shine
In hairs more bright than is the golden ore,
Or cheeks more fair than fairest eglantine,
Or hands like hers who comes the sun before;
Match'd with that heavenly hue and shape divine,
With those dear stars which my weak thoughts adore,
Look but like shadows, or if they be more,
It is in that, that they are like to thine.
Who sees those eyes, their force and doth not prove,
Who gazeth on the dimple of that chin,
And finds not Venus' son intrench'd therein,
Or hath not sense, or knows not what is love.
To see thee had Narcissus had the grace,
He sure had died with wond'ring on thy face.
In hairs more bright than is the golden ore,
Or cheeks more fair than fairest eglantine,
Or hands like hers who comes the sun before;
Match'd with that heavenly hue and shape divine,
With those dear stars which my weak thoughts adore,
Look but like shadows, or if they be more,
It is in that, that they are like to thine.
Who sees those eyes, their force and doth not prove,
Who gazeth on the dimple of that chin,
And finds not Venus' son intrench'd therein,
Or hath not sense, or knows not what is love.
To see thee had Narcissus had the grace,
He sure had died with wond'ring on thy face.