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Fair CYNTHIA'S silver light
That beats on running streams,
Compares not with her white,
Whose hairs are all sunbeams.
Her virtues so do shine
As day, unto mine eyne.
With this there is a red
Exceeds the damask rose:
Which in her cheeks is spread,
Whence every favour grows.
In sky there is no star,
That she surmounts not far.
When PHOEBUS from the bed
Of THETIS doth arise;
The morning blushing red
In fair carnation-wise,
He shows it in her face
As queen of every grace.
This pleasant lily white,
This taint of roseate red,
This CYNTHIA'S silver light,
The sweet fair Dea spread,
These sunbeams in mine eye;
These beauties make me die.
E.O.
