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Philip Sidney - Sonnet 77: Those Looks, Whose Beams Be Joy
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Those looks, whose beams be joy, whose motion is delight, 
That face, whose lecture shows what perfect beauty is: 
That presence, which doth give dark hearts a living light: 
That grace, which Venus weeps that she herself doth miss: 

That hand, which without touch holds more than Atlas might: 
Those lips, which make death`s pay a mean price for a kiss: 
That skin, skin, whose passe-praise hue scorns this poor term of white: 
Those words, which do sublime the quintessence of bliss: 

That voice, which makes the soul plant himself in the ears: 
That conversation sweet, where such high comforts be, 
As constru`d in true speech, the name of heav`n it bears, 

Makes me in my best thought and quiet`st judgment see, 
That in no more but these I might be fully blest: 
Yet ah, my maiden Muse doth blush to tell the rest.
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