Sonnet XXVII. The heaven’s herald may not make compare

Richard Linche (fl. 1596–1601)

THE HEAVEN’s herald may not make compare

of working words, which so abound in thee.

Thy honey-dewed tongue exceeds his far,

in sweet discourse and tuneful melody.

Th’ amber-coloured tress which BERENICE

for her true-loving PTHOLOMEUS, vowed

Within IDALEA’s sacred Aphrodrice,

is worthless, with thy locks to be allowed.

To thee, my thoughts are consecrate, dear Love!

my words and phrases bound to please thine ears!

My looks are such, as any heart could move:

I still solicit thee with sighs and tears!

O let not hate eclipse thy beauty’s shine!

Then none would deem thee earthly, but divine.