Sonnet CCLXXI:
Her face is perfect oval, one long sweep
From temple round to temple, taking in
A line uncut of cheek and little chin,
That dies beneath her hair in shadows deep.
The Holy Mother of the Chair doth keep
This wondrous line immortal, and to twin
That sacred form, was jealous nature’s sin,
Heightening the charm to make her mimics weep.
Thus nature slyly in my darling’s face
Outrivaled art; but so confused poor me,
By giving her religion’s fairest grace,
