Sonnet LXXI. Those hairs of angels’ gold, thy nature’s treasure

Barnabe Barnes (1569?–1609)

THOSE hairs of angels’ gold, thy nature’s treasure.

(For thou, by Nature, angel-like art framed!)

Those lovely brows, broad bridges of sweet pleasure,

Arch two clear springs of Graces gracious named;

There Graces infinite do bathe and sport!

Under, on both sides, those two precious hills,

Where PHŒBE and VENUS have a several fort.

Her couch, with snowy lilies, PHŒBE fills,

But VENUS, with red roses, hers adorneth;

There, they, with silent tokens, do dispute

Whilst PHŒBE, VENUS; VENUS, PHŒBE scorneth!

And all the Graces, judgers there sit mute

To give their verdict; till great JOVE said this,

“DIANA’s arrows wound not, like thy kiss!”