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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374424" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sonnet LXI</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374424" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">THe glorious image of the makers beautie,<br>My souerayne faynt, the Idoll of my thought,<br>dare not henceforth aboue the bounds of dewtie,<br>t'accuse of pride, or rashly blame for ought.<br>For being as she is diuinely wrought,<br>and of the brood of Angels heuenly borne:<br>and with the crew of blessed Saynts vpbrought,<br>each of which did her with theyr guifts adorne;<br>The bud of ioy, the blossome of the morne,<br>the beame of light, whom mortal eyes admyre:<br>what reason is it then but she should scorne,<br>base things that to her loue too bold aspire?<br>Such heauenly formes ought rather worshipt be,<br>then dare be lou'd by men of meane degree.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Edmund+Spenser">Edmund Spenser</a></strong></div>

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