Sonnet VIII
More than most fair, full of the living fire,
Kindled above unto the maker near,
No eyes but joys, in which all powers conspire,
That to the world naught less be counted dear,
Through your bright beams doth not the blinded guest
Shoot out his darts to base affections wound?
But angels come to lead frail minds to rest
In chaste desires on heavenly beauty bound.
You frame my thoughts and fashion me within,
You stop my tongue and teach my heart to speak,
You calm the storm that passion did begin,
Strong through your cause, but by your virtue weak.
Dark is the world where your light shinèd never;
Well is he born that may behold you ever.
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