Sonnet 17 (Barnfield)

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Cherry-Lipt Adonis in his snowie shape,
     Might not compare with his pure Ivorie white,
     On whose faire front a Poets pen may write,
Whose rosiate red excels the crimson grape,
His love-enticing delicate soft limbs,
     Are rarely fram'd fintrap poore gazing eies:
     His cheekes, the Lillie and Carnation dies,
With lovely tincture which Apolloes dims.
His lips ripe strawberries in Nectar wet,
     His mouth a Hive, his tongue a hony-combe,
     Where Muses (like Bees) make their mansion.
His teeth pure Pearle in blushing Correll set.
     Oh how can such a body sinne-procuring,
     Be slow to love, and quicke to hate, enduring?