Sonet 70

Some gallant sprites whose waies none yet dare trace,
To shew the world the wonders of their wit,
Did (as their tossed fancies thought most fit)
Forme rare Idæas of a diuine face.
Yet neuer Art to that true worth attain'd,
Which Nature now growne prodigall, imparts
To one, deare one, whose sacred seuerall parts,
Are more admir'd then all that Poets fain'd.
Those bordring climes that boast of beauties shrine,
If once thy sight enrich'd their soiles (my loue
Then all with one consent behou'd t'approue,
That Calidon doth beauties best confine.
But ah, the heau'n on this my ruine sounds,
The more her worth, the deeper are my wounds.