Edmund Spenser (1552?–1599)

FAIR is my love, when her fair golden hairs

With the loose wind ye waving chance to mark;

Fair, when the rose in her red cheeks appears;

Or in her eyes the fire of love does spark.

Fair, when her breast, like a rich-laden bark,

With precious merchandise she forth doth lay;

Fair, when that cloud of pride, which oft doth dark

Her goodly light, with smiles she drives away.

But fairest she, when so she doth display

The gate with pearls and rubies richly dight;

Through which her words so wise do make their way

To bear the message of her gentle sprite.

The rest be works of nature’s wonderment:

But this the work of heart’s astonishment.