Sonnet LXI
THe glorious image of the makers beautie,
My souerayne faynt, the Idoll of my thought,
Dare not henceforth aboue the bounds of dewtie,
T’accuse of pride, or rashly blame for ought.
For being as she is diuinely wrought,
And of the brood of Angels heuenly borne:
And with the crew of blessed Saynts vpbrought,
Each of which did her with theyr guifts adorne;
The bud of ioy, the blossome of the morne,
The beame of light, whom mortal eyes admyre:
What reason is it then but she should scorne,
Base things that to her loue too bold aspire?
Such heauenly formes ought rather worshipt be,
Then dare be lou’d by men of meane degree.
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