SONNET. XVII.

Cherry-lipt Adonis in his snowie shape,
     Might not compare with his pure Iuorie white,
     On whose faire front a Poets pen may write,
Whose rosiate red excels the crimson grape,
His loue-enticing delicate soft limbs,
     Are rarely fram'd t'intrap poore gazing eies:
     His cheekes, the Lillie and Carnation dies,
With louely tincture which Apolloes dims.
His lips ripe strawberries in Nectar wet,
     His mouth a Hiue, his tongue a hony-combe,
     Where Muses (like Bees) make their mansion.
His teeth pure Pearle in blushing Correll set,
     Oh how can such a body sinne-procuring,
     Be slow to loue, and quicke to hate, enduring�