Sonnet 17

Cherry-lipt Adonis in his snowie shape,
  Might not compare with his pure ivorie white,
  On whose faire front a poet’s pen may write,
Whose roseate red excels the crimson grape,
His love-enticing delicate soft limbs,
  Are rarely fram’d t’intrap poore gazine eies:
  His cheeks, the lillie and carnation dies,
With lovely tincture which Apollo’s dims.
His lips ripe strawberries in nectar wet,
  His mouth a Hive, his tongue a hony-combe,
  Where Muses (like bees) make their mansion.
His teeth pure pearle in blushing correll set.
  Oh how can such a body sinne-procuring,
  Be slow to love, and quicke to hate, enduring?