Sonnet LXXXI

Fayre is my loue, when her fayre golden heares,with the loose wynd ye wauing chance to marke:fayre when the rose in her red cheekes appeares,or in her eyes the fyre of loue does sparke.

Fayre when her brest lyke a rich laden barke,with pretious merchandize she forth doth lay:fayre whe[n] that cloud of pryde, which oft doth darkher goodly light with smiles she driues away.

But fayrest she, when so she doth display,the gate with pearles and rubyes richly dight:throgh which her words so wise do make their wayto beare the message of her gentle spright,

The rest be works of natures wonderment,but this the worke of harts astonishment.