Sonnet VIII. No stars her eyes to clear the wandering night

Thomas Lodge (1558–1625)

NO stars her eyes to clear the wandering night,

But shining suns of true divinity,

That make the soul conceive her perfect light!

No wanton beauties of humanity

Her pretty brows, but beams that clear the sight

Of him that seeks the true philosophy!

No coral is her lip, no rose her fair,

But even that crimson that adorns the sun.

No nymph is she, but mistress of the air,

By whom my glories are but new begun.

But when I touch and taste as others do,

I then shall write, and you shall wonder too.