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Michael Drayton - Sonnet LVII: You Best Discern`d
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You best discern`d of my mind`s inward eyes, 
And yet your graces outwardly divine, 
Whose dear remembrance in my bosom lies, 
Too rich a relic for so poor a shrine; 
You, in whom Nature chose herself to view 
When she her own perfection would admire, 
Bestowing all her excellence on you, 
At whose pure eyes Love lights his hallow`d fire; 
E`en as a man that in some trance hath seen 
More than his won`ring utt`rance can unfold, 
That, rapt in spirit, in better worlds hath been, 
So must your praise distractedly be told, 
Most of all short when I would show you most, 
In your perfections so much am I lost.
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