MY lady woke upon a morning fair, What time Apollo's chariot takes the skies, And, fain to fill with arrows from her eyes His empty quiver, Love was standing¹ there： I saw two apples that her breast doth bear None such the close of the Hesperides Yields； nor hath Venus any such as these, Nor she that had of nursling Mars the care.

    Even such a bosom², and so fair it was, Pure as the perfect work of Phidias, That sad Andromeda's discomfiture³ Left bare, when Perseus passed her on a day, And pale as Death for fear of Death she lay, With breast as marble cold, as marble pure.