her natural bosom find. Many for many virtues excellent, None but for some, and yet all different. O, mickle is the sun upon the cheek of night As a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows. The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand, And touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I am sure, I have heard it all. Here’s much to him, he is found, that hour is his last. Bear hence this body, and attend our will.