Sonnet CCLXXIV:
Such of her beauties as the world may see,
Whose eyes escort her eagerly around,
Lackeying her way with homage too profound
For jealous me, O world, I give to thee!
But seek no more. If other charms there be
Hidden from view; reflect, ’tis holy ground
Your rashness treads; beware the goddess crowned,
And angel-guarded, in her purity
I would not tell the wonder of her breast,
Its warmth, its perfume, nor the mystic dew
Upon her mouth, nor give her limbs to view—
Those taper marvels, fawned on and caressed
By robes they animate to grace confessed—
No, not to save another world like you!
