Pray that my Sunne goe downe with me her beames to bed.
Those lookes, whose beames be joy, whose motion is delight,
That face whose lecture shewes what perfect Beautie is:
That presence which doth give darke hearts a living light,
That grace, which Venus weepes that shee her selfe doth misse.
That hand, which without touch, holdes more than Atlas might,
Those lips, which makes deathes pay a meane prise for a kisse:
That skin, whose past-praise hue scornes this poore tearme of whit,
Those words which doe sublime the quintessence of blisse.
That voice which makes the soule plant himselfe in the eares,