Thrals thy heart in sweet subjection:
Or when to display thou seeks
The snow-mixt roses in her cheekes,
Or those rubies soft and sweet,
Over those pretty rows that meet:
The Chian painter as asham’d
Hides his picture so far fam’d;
And the Queen he carv’d it by,
With a blush her face doth dye,
Since those lines do limne a creature