Sonnet XVII

The glorious portrait of that Angel's face, Made to amaze weak men's confused skill, And this world's worthless glory to embase,

What pen, what pencil, can express her fill?

For, though he colours could devise at will,

And eke his learned hand at pleasure guide, Lest, trembling, it his workmanship should spill;

Yet many wondrous things there are beside:

The sweet eye-glances, that like arrows glide,

The charming smiles, that rob sense from the heart,

The lovely pleasance, and the lofty pride, Cannot expressed be by any art.

A greater craftsman's hand thereto doth need,

That can express the life of things indeed.

The merry cuckoo, messenger of spring, His trumpet shrill hath thrice already sounded,

That warns all lovers wait upon their king,

Who now is coming forth with garland crowned.

With noise whereof the choir of birds resounded,

Their anthems sweet, devised of love's

praise,

That all the woods their echoes back rebounded,

As if they knew the meaning of their lays. But 'mongst them all, which did love's honour raise,

No word was heard of her that most it ought;

But she his precept proudly disobeys,

And doth his idle message set at naught.

Therefore, O love, unless she turn to thee

Ere cuckoo end, let her a rebel be!

Sonnet XXI

Was it the work of nature or of art, Which tempered so the feature of her face,

That pride and meekness, mixed by equal

part,

Do both appear to adorn her beauty's

grace?

For with mild pleasance, which doth pride displace,

She to her love doth lookers' eyes allure; And, with stern countenance, back again doth chase

Their looser looks that stir up lusts impure; With such strange terms her eyes she doth inure,

That with one look she doth my life dismay,

And with another doth it straight recure; Her smile me draws; her frown me drives

away.

Thus doth she train and teach me with

her looks;

Such art of eyes I never read in books.

Like as a ship, that through the ocean wide,

By conduct of some star, doth make her

way,

Whenas a storm hath dimmed her trusty guide

Out of her course doth wander far astray: So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray

Me to direct, with clouds is overcast,

Do wander now, in darkness and dismay, Through hidden perils round about me placed;

Yet hope I well that, when this storm is past,

My Helice, the loadstar of my life,

Will shine again, and look on me at last, With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief. Till then I wander careful, comfortless, In secret sorrow, and sad pensiveness.

Sonnet XXXV

My hungry eyes, through greedy covetise Still to behold the object of their pain, With no contentment can themselves suffice,

But, having, pine, and having not, complain.

For, lacking it, they cannot life sustain; And, having it, they gaze on it the more; In their amazement like Narcissus vain, Whose eyes him starved: so plenty makes me poor.

Yet are mine eyes so filled with the store Of that fair sight, that nothing else they

brook,

But loathe the things which they did like before,

And can no more endure on them to look.

All this world's glory seemeth vain to me, And all their shows but shadows, saving she.