And would you see my mistress' face,
It is a flow'ry garden place
Where knots of beauties have such grace
That all is work and nowhere space.

It is a sweet delicious morn,
Where day is breeding never born,
It is a meadow yet unshorn,
Whom thousand flowers do adorn.

It is the heavens' bright reflex,
Weak eyes to dazzle and to vex,
It is th' Idaea of her sex,
Envy of whom doth world perplex.

It is a face of death that smiles,
Pleasing, though it kills the whiles,
Where death and love in pretty wiles,
Each other mutually beguiles.

It is fair beauty's freshest youth,
It is the feign'd Elysium's truth,
The Spring that winter'd hearts renew'th,
And this is that my soul pursu'th.