Of gold all burnished, brighter than sunbeams, Were those curled locks upon her noble head Whose deep conceits my true deserving fled. Wherefore mine eyes such store of tears outstreams. Her eyes, fair stars ; her red, like damask rose ; White, silver shine of moon on crystal stream ; Her beauty perfect, whereon fancies dream. Her lips are rubies ; teeth, of pearls two rows. Her breath more sweet than perfect amber is ; Her years in prime ; and nothing doth she want That might draw gods from heaven to further bliss. Of all things perfect this I most complain, Her heart is rock, made all of adamant. Gifts all delight, this last doth only pain.
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