Xlvii

I need not tell thee of the lily white, Nor of the roseate red which doth thee grace, Nor of thy golden hairs like Phoebus bright, Nor of the beauty of thy fairest face. Nor of thine eyes which heavenly stars excel, Nor of thine azured veins which are so clear, Nor of thy paps where Love himself doth dwell, Which like two hills of violets appear. Nor of thy tender sides, nor belly soft, Nor of thy goodly thighs as white as snow, Whose glory to my fancy seemeth oft That like an arch triumphal they do show. All these I know that thou dost know too well, But of thy heart too cruel I thee tell.