O, I am apt of others' charms to sing.
I had a mistress with a scarlet lip,
Shaped by Love's bow, where wandering bees might sip,
Nor know from pink or rose that odorous thing;
Her eyes were heavens of blue, through which the wing
Of Venus' silver dovelets flashed. To slip
Her net of crowded tresses was to dip
Wrist-deep in flossy gold, ring coiled on ring.
Her nostrils fluttered at the slightest swell
Of waking passion; and her cheeks would tell
Her thoughts in blushes ere a word found place.
Her rosy chin, the curve with which it fell
Into her ivory neck, the airy grace
That poised her head, made truth half miracle.