English poem
A Sonnet Made on Isabella Markhame, When I Firste Thought Her Fayer as She Stood at the Princess's Windowe in…
by Anonymous
Whence comes my love, O hearte, disclose, 'Twas from cheeks that shamed the rose; From lips that spoyle the rubies prayse; From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze. Whence comes my woe, as freely owne, Ah me! 'twas from a hearte lyke stone.
The blushynge cheek speakes modest mynde, The lipps befitting wordes moste kynde; The eye does tempte to love's desyre, And seems to say, 'tis Cupid's fire; Yet all so faire, but speak my moane, Syth noughte dothe saye the heart of stone.
Why thus, my love, so kynde bespeake, Sweet lyppe, sweet eye, sweet blushynge cheeke, Yet not a hearte to save my paine, O Venus, take thy giftes againe, Make not so faire to cause our moane, Or make a hearte that's lyke our owne.
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