Sonnet 57

You best discern'd of my interior eyes,

And yet your graces outwardly diuine,

Whose dear remembrance in my bosom lies,

To rich a realique for so poor a shrine:

You in whom Nature chose herself to view,

When she her own perfection would admire,

Bestowing all her excellence on you;

At whose pure eyes Loue lights his hallowed fire,

Even as a man that in some trance hath scene,

More than his wondering utterance can unfold,

That rapt in the spirit in better worlds hath been,

So must your praise distractedly be told;

Most of all short, when I should shew you most,

In your perfections altogether lost.

- Michael Drayton