My lady woke upon a morning fair,

What time Apollo’s chariot takes the skies,

And, fain to fill with arrows from her eyes

His empty quiver, Love was standing there:

I saw two apples that her breast doth bear

None such the close of the Hesperides

Yields; nor hath Venus any such as these,

Nor she that had of nursling Mars the care.

Even such a bosom, and so fair it was,

Pure as the perfect work of Phidias,

That sad Andromeda’s discomfiture

Left bare, when Perseus passed her on a day,

And pale as Death for fear of Death she lay,

With breast as marble cold, as marble pure.