Sonnet 17

THE glorious poutraict of that angels face,

Made to amaze weake mens confuséd skil:

And this worlds worthlesse glory to embase,

What pen, what pencil, can expresse her fill?

For though he colours could devize at will,

And eke his learnéd hand at pleasure guide:

Least, trembling, it his workmanship should spill,

Yet many wondrous things there are beside.

The sweet eye-glaunces, that like arrowes glide,

The charming smiles, that rob sence from the hart:

The lovely pleasance, and the lofty pride

Cannot expresséd be by any art.

A greater craftesmans hand thereto doth neede,

That can expresse the life of things indeed.