How shall I then describe my Love?

How shall I then describe my Love?

When all men's skilful art

Is far inferior to her worth,

To praise the unworthiest part.

She's chaste in looks, mild in her speech,

In actions all discreet,

Of nature loving, pleasing most,

In virtue all complete.

And for her voice a Philomel,

Her lips may all lips scorn;

No sun more clear than is her eye,

In brightest summer morn.

A mind wherein all virtues rest

And take delight to be,

And where all virtues graft themselves

In that most fruitful tree:

A tree that India doth not yield,

Nor ever yet was seen,

Where buds of virtue always spring,

And all the year grow green.

That country's blest wherein she grows,

And happy is that rock

From whence she springs: but happiest he

That grafts in such a stock.