 | Poems (1914) |  |
Sonetto. 20.
[Campaspe's fayre fresh-paynted forme embrac'd]
Campaspe's fayre fresh-paynted forme embrac'd,By the rare Father of the paynters art,
Could yeilde small ioy except that she had grac'd,
His liuely cunning by her good desart,
Yet he reioyc'd her counterfeyte to kisse.
Which she neu'r sawe though he the same profan'd.
How infinite is then my ioyfull blisse,
That still enioy the Idea of thy hande;
Thy gloue it is mine onlye comfort left,
Which thy sweete hande made happie with her touch,
This is the Idole that my heart infeoft,
With loues sweete hope which I adore to much.
That I retayne a monument for thee,
Though without life; life it affordes to me.
| Poems (1914) | |