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That cheek which doth proclaim the rite of spring
And heretofore hath nature's grand technique
Ne'er ripened lips so red from which to sing
Begone, false sun! I know thee for a fraud
Her fairest skin illuminates the day.
All gold is brass and e'ery jewel is flawed
When set beside the sums her eyes might pay
The Spindle, which from Omonporch ascends
Must surely be her likeness brightly wrought
And as a likeness, fails to apprehend
The artless beauty that its makers sought
Did I know love or beauty? No, for shame
For I knew neither 'til they spoke her name