Richard Barnfield

Cherry-lipt Adonis in his snowie shape, Might not compare with his pure ivorie white, On whose faire front a poet’s pen may write, Whose roseate red excels the crimson grape, His love-enticing delicate soft limbs, Are rarely fram’d t’intrap poore gazine eies: His cheeks, the lillie and carnation dies, With lovely tincture which Apollo’s dims. His lips ripe strawberries in nectar wet, His mouth a Hive, his tongue a hony-combe, Where Muses (like bees) make their mansion. His teeth pure pearle in blushing correll set. Oh how can such a body sinne-procuring, Be slow to love, and quicke to hate, enduring?

Long have I long’d to see my love againe, Still have I wisht, but never could obtaine it; Rather than all the world (if I might gaine it) Would I desire my love’s sweet precious gaine. Yet in my soule I see him everie day, See him, and see his still sterne countenaunce, But (ah) what is of long continuance, Where majestie and beautie beares the sway? Sometimes, when I imagine that I see him, (As love is full of foolish fantasies) Weening to kisse his lips, as my love’s fees, I feele but aire: nothing but aire to bee him. Thus with Ixion, kisse I clouds in vaine: Thus with Ixion, feele I endles paine.