Beauty no more the subject be
Of wanton art to flatter thee;
Or in dull figures call thee spring,
Lily, or rose, or other thing:
All which beneath thee are, and grow
Into contempt when thou dost show
The unmatched glory of thy brow.
Behold a sphere of virgins move,
None 'mongst them less than queen of love;
And yet their queen so far excells,
Beauty and she are only parallels.

Beauty no more the subject be
Of wanton art to flatter thee;
Or in dull figures call thee spring,
Lily, or rose, or other thing:
All which beneath thee are, and grow
Into contempt when thou dost show
The unmatched glory of thy brow.
Behold a sphere of virgins move,
None 'mongst them less than queen of love;
And yet their queen so far excells,
Beauty and she are only parallels.