In every eyelash is a sword ✿ And every glance hath archery:
Her liplets twain old wine contain, ✿ And dews of fount-like purity:
Her teeth resemble strings o’ pearls, ✿ Arrayed in line and fresh from sea:
Her neck is like the neck of doe, ✿ Pretty and carven perfectly:
Her bosom is a marble slab ✿ Whence rise two breasts like towers on lea:
And on her stomach shows a crease ✿ Perfumed with rich perfumery;
Beneath which same there lurks a Thing ✿ Limit of mine expectancy.”
A something rounded, cushioned-high ✿ And plump, my lords, to high degree:
To me ’tis likest royal throne ✿ Whither my longings wander free;
There ’twixt two pillars man shall find ✿ Benches of high-built tracery.