Poem by Edmund Spenser

Amoretti 17. The glorious pourtraict of that angels face

The glorious pourtraict of that angels face,
Made to amaze weake mens confused skil,
And this worlds worthlesse glory to embase,
What pen, what pencill, can expresse her fill?
For though he colours could devize at will,
And eke his learned hand at pleasure guide,
Least, trembling, it his workmanship should spill*,
Yet many wondrous things there are beside:
The sweet eye-glaunces, that like arrowes glide,
The charming smiles, that rob sence from the hart,
The lovely pleasance, and the lofty pride,
Cannot expressed be by any art.
  A greater craftesmans hand thereto doth neede,
  That can expresse the life of things indeed.

[* Spill, spoil] 

1. Amoretti 49. Fayre Cruell! why are ye so fierce and cruell?
2. Amoretti 32. The paynefull smith with force of fervent heat
3. Amoretti 46. When my abodes prefixed time is spent
4. Amoretti 73. Being my self captyved here in care
5. Amoretti 26. Sweet is the rose, but growes upon a brere

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