On His Mistress

with not a fault, no one could find, in all the fairness in her mind, that pours on, out, upon her face, then beautifies from place to place. in truth no note has music found, a part to place her voice around, nor tune that could be heard or read, play substitute, her voice instead. my mistress' gaze, at morn reminds, each day, the sun that it should shine. and blessed be me, because her smile, at dawn each day, doth renew life. the blooming rose, thought it was red, until my mistress' blood was shed. not much! a drop, as it could save a dying man, and day by day. so not to think what two could do, that too could help a distressed crew. in truth and oft, resemblance fair, between her meekness and the air. whens't care and love nest in her heart, would they find need to fly afar? i am more taken by her touch, than silk or any soothed cloth. and any other maiden fair, on earth, cannot to her compare. she is to me most industrious, in every part posses resource. she grows in wisdom everyday, reminds me life is stage by stage. the rainy days never met her, for when it came, she'd traveled far. she would replace, the frown and cries, upon each face that's passing by, with a grimace, like on the face of children plagued with chocolate. her knowledge's great, as of the geeks, but that by day, doth it increase, and till tomorrow, would not stop, to add, to know, to remain taught. what thing could boast of purity, when laced beside the heart she keeps? no man or alien that is true, would claim to be as pure in truth.