Sonnet 13

Speake Eccho, tell; how may I call my loue? Love.
But how his Lamps that are so christaline? Eyne.
Oh happy starrs that make your heauens divine:
And happy Iems that admiration moue.
How tearm'st his golde tresses wau'd with aire? Haire.
Oh louely haire of your more-louely Maister,
Image of loue, faire shape of Alablaster,
Why do'st thou driue thy Louer to dispaire?
How dost thou cal the bed wher beuty grows? Rose.
Faire virgine-Rose, whose mayden blossoms couer
The milke-white Lilly, thy imbracing Louer:
Whose kisses make the oft thy red to lose.
And blushing oft for shame, whe he hath kist thee,
He vades away, and thou raing'st where it list thee.