Sonnet 81
Fair is my love, when her fair golden hears
with the loose wind the 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 spright.
The rest be works of nature's wonderment,
but this the work of heart's astonishment.
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