My lady woke upon a morning fair, 
What time Apollo?s chariot takes the skies, 
And, fain to fill with arrows from her eyes 
His empty quiver, Love was standing there: 
I saw two apples that her breast doth bear 
None such the close of the Hesperides 
Yields; nor hath Venus any such as these, 
Nor she that had of nursling Mars the care. 

Even such a bosom, and so fair it was, 
Pure as the perfect work of Phidias, 
That sad Andromeda?s discomfiture 
Left bare, when Perseus passed her on a day, 
And pale as Death for fear of Death she lay, 
With breast as marble cold, as marble pure.