Poem by Edmund Spenser

Amoretti 79. Men call you fayre, and you doe credit it

Men call you fayre, and you doe credit it,
For that your selfe ye daily such doe see:
But the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit
And vertuous mind, is much more praysd of me.
For all the rest, how ever fayre it be,
Shall turne to nought and lose that glorious hew;
But onely that is permanent, and free
From frayle corruption that doth flesh ensew.
That is true beautie: that doth argue you
To be divine, and born of heavenly seed,
Deriv’d from that fayre Spirit from whom all true
And perfect beauty did at first proceed.
  He only fayre, and what he fayre hath made;
  All other fayre, lyke flowres, untymely fade. 

1. Amoretti 13. In that proud port which her so goodly graceth
2. Amoretti 46. When my abodes prefixed time is spent
3. Amoretti 23. Penelope, for her Ulisses sake
4. Amoretti 82. Ioy of my life! full oft for loving you
5. Amoretti 69. The famous warriors of the anticke world

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