Upon its greenness down her bosom white.
(Sonnet 127.)
Oh blithe and happy flowers, oh favoured sod,
That by my lady in passive mood are pressed,
Lawn, which her sweet words hear'st and treasurest,
Faint traces, where her shapely foot hath trod,
Smooth boughs, green leaves, which now raw juices load,
Pale darling violets, and woods which rest
In shadow, till that sun's beam you attest,
From which hath all your pride and grandeur flowed;