Though be thou limn'd in these discoloured lines,
Delicious Model of my spirits portraict,
Though be thou sable penciled, these deseygnes
Shadow not beautie, but a sorrowes extract.
When I empris'd, though in my loues affections,
The silver lustre of thy brow to vnmaske
Though hath my Muse hyperboliz'd traiections:
Yet stands it aye deficient to such taske.
My slubbring pencil casts too grosse a matter,
Thy beauties pure diuinitie to blaze:
For when my smoothèd tongue hath sought to flatter,
Thy Worth hath deartht his words for thy due praise:
Then though my pencil glaunce here on thine eyes,
Sweet thinke thy fayre it doth but portionize.
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