SONNET
Faire is my loue for Aprill in her face,
Hir louely brests September claimes his part,
And Lordly Iuly in her eyes takes place,
But colde December dwelleth in her heart:
Blest be the months, that sets my thoughts on fire,
Accurst that Month that hindreth my desire.
Like Phoebus fire, so sparkles both her eies,
As ayre perfumde with Amber is her breath:
Like swelling waues her louely teates do rise,
As earth hir heart, cold, dateth me to death.
Aye me poore man that on the earth do liue,
When vnkind earth, death and dispaire doth giue.
In pompe sits Mercie seated in hir face,
Loue twixt her brests his trophees dooth imprint.
Her eyes shines fauour, courtesie, and grace:
But touch her heart, ah that is framd of flynt;
That fore my haruest in the Grasse beares graine,
The rockt will weare, washt with a winters raine.
-- Robert Greene
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Jon Corelis www.geocities.com/jgcorelis/
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