Sonnet XXII. Fair art thou, Phillis, ay, so fair, sweet maid

Thomas Lodge (1558–1625)

FAIR art thou, Phillis, ay, so fair, sweet maid

As nor the sun, nor I have seen more fair,

For in thy cheeks sweet roses are embayed,

And gold more pure than gold doth gild thy hair.

Sweet bees have hived their honey on thy tongue,

And Hebe spiced her nectar with thy breath;

About thy neck do all the graces throng,

And lay such baits as might entangle death.

In such a breast what heart would not be thrall

From such sweet arms who would not wish embraces?

At thy fair hands who wonders not at all,

Wonder itself through ignorance embases?

Yet natheless though wondrous gifts you call these,

My faith is far more wonderful than all these.