Those Lookes, Whose Beames Be Ioy, Whose Motion Is Delight; That Face, Whose Lecture Shews What Perfect Beauty Is; That Presence, Which Doth Giue Darke Hearts A Liuing Light; That Grace, Which Venus Weeps That She Her Selfe Doth Misse; That Hand, Which Without Touch Holds More Then Atlas Might; Those Lips, Which Make Deaths Pay A Meane Price For A Kisse; That Skin, Whose Passe-Praise Hue Scornes This Poor Tearm Of White; Those Words, Which Do Sublime The Quintessence Of Bliss; That Voyce, Which Makes The Soule Plant Himselfe In The Ears, That Conuersation Sweet, Where Such High Comforts Be, As, Consterd In True Speech, The Name Of Heaun It Beares; Makes Me In My Best Thoughts And Quietst Iudgments See That In No More But These I Might Be Fully Blest: Yet, Ah, My Mayd'N Muse Doth Blush To Tell The Best.