Thomas Lodge

Sonnets to Phillis. 9

      The dewy roseate Morn had with her hairs
    In sundry sorts the Indian clime adorned;
    And now her eyes apparrelèd in tears,
    The loss of lovely Memnon long had mourned,
      When as she spied the nymph whom I admire,
    Combing her locks, of which the yellow gold
    Made blush the beauties of her curlèd wire,
    Which heaven itself with wonder might behold;
      Then red with shame, her reverend locks she rent,
    And weeping hid the beauty of her face,
    The flower of fancy wrought such discontent;
    The sighs which midst the air she breathed a space,
      A three-days' stormy tempest did maintain,
      Her shame a fire, her eyes a swelling rain.