LXXVII. Those looks! whose beams be joy, whose motion is delight

Sir Philip Sidney (1554–1586)

THOSE looks! whose beams be joy, whose motion is delight;

That face! whose lecture shows what perfect beauty is;

That presence! which doth give dark hearts a living light;

That grace! which VENUS weeps that she herself doth miss;

That hand! which without touch, holds more than ATLAS’ might;

Those lips! which make death’s pay, a mean price for a kiss;

That skin! whose past-praise hue scorns this poor term of white;

Those words! which do sublime the quintessence of bliss;

That voice! which makes the soul plant himself in the ears;

That conversation sweet! where such high comforts be,

As construed in true speech, the name of heaven it bears:

Make me in my best thoughts and quiet’st judgment see

That in no more but these, I might be fully blest;

Yet, ah! My maiden Muse doth blush to tell the rest.