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Edmund Spenser - Sonnet LXI
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THe glorious image of the makers beautie,
My souerayne faynt, the Idoll of my thought,
dare not henceforth aboue the bounds of dewtie,
t`accuse of pride, or rashly blame for ought.
For being as she is diuinely wrought,
and of the brood of Angels heuenly borne:
and with the crew of blessed Saynts vpbrought,
each of which did her with theyr guifts adorne;
The bud of ioy, the blossome of the morne,
the beame of light, whom mortal eyes admyre:
what reason is it then but she should scorne,
base things that to her loue too bold aspire?
Such heauenly formes ought rather worshipt be,
then dare be lou`d by men of meane degree.
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