Sonnet XXXIX
SWeet smile, the daughter of the Queene of loue,
Expressing all thy mothers powrefull art:
With which she wonts to temper angry loue,
When all the gods he threats with thundring dart.
Sweet is thy vertue as thy selfe sweet art,
For when on me thou shinedst late in sadnesse:
A melting pleasance ran through euery part,
And me reuiued with hart robbing gladnesse.
Whylest rapt with ioy resembling heauenly madnes,
My soule was rauisht quite as in a traunce:
And feeling thence no more her sorowes sadnesse,
Fed on the fulnesse of that chearefull glaunce.
More sweet than Nectar or Ambrosiall meat,
Seemd euery bit, which thenceforth I did eat.
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