Where be those roses gone, which sweeten`d so our eyes? Where those red cheeks, which oft with fair increase did frame The height of honor in the kindly badge of shame? Who hath the crimson weeds stol`n from my morning skies? How did the color fade of those vermilion dyes Which Nature self did make, and self engrain`d the same? I would know by what right this paleness overcame That hue, whose force my heart still unto thraldom ties. Galen`s adoptive sons, who by a beaten way Their judgments hackney on, the fault of sickness lay, But feeling proof makes me say they mistake it furre: It is but Love, which makes his paper perfect white To write therein more fresh the story of delight, While Beauty`s reddest ink Venus for him doth stir.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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