Quoted By:
>O, she doth pale red apples by her cheek!
>That cheek which doth proclaim the rite of spring,
>And heretofore hath nature's grand technique,
>Ne'er ripened lips so red from which to sing.
>Begone, false sun! I know thee for a fraud.
>Her fairest skin illuminates the day.
>All gold is brass and e'ery jewel is flawed,
>When set beside the sums her eyes might pay.
>The Spindle, which from Omonporch ascends,
>Must surely be her likeness brightly wrought,
>And as a likeness, fails to apprehend,
>The artless beauty that its makers sought.
>Did I know love or beauty? No, for shame!
>For I knew neither 'til they spoke her name.
