by Robert Greene
Fair is my Love, for April in her face;
Her lovely breasts September claims his part;
And lordly J u ly in her eyes takes place;
But cold December dwelleth in her heart:
Blest be the months that sets my thoughts on fire!
Accurst that month that hind'reth my desire!
Like Phoebus' fire, so sparkles both her eyes;
As air perfumed with amber is her breath;
Like swelling waves her lovely teats do rise;
As earth her heart, cold, dateth me to death:
Ay me, poor man, that on the earth do live,
When unkind earth death and despair doth give!
In pomp sits mercy seated in her face;
Love 'twixt her breasts his trophies doth imprint;
Here eyes shines favour, courtesy, and grace;
But touch her heart, ah, that is framed of flint!
That 'fore my harvest in the grass bears grain,
The rock will wear, washed with a winter's rain.
Last updated September 24, 2017