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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374471" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sonnet XVII</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374471" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">THe glorious portraict of that Angels face,<br>Made to amaze weake mens confused skil:<br>and this worlds worthlesse glory to embase,<br>what pen, what pencill can expresse her fill?<br>For though he colours could deuize at will,<br>and eke his learned hand at pleasure guide:<br>least trembling it his wormanship should spill,<br>yet many wondrous things there are beside.<br>The sweet eye-glaunces, that like arrowes glide,<br>the charming smiles, that rob sence from the hart:<br>the louely pleasance and the lofty pride,<br>cannot expressed be by any art.<br>A greater craftesmans hand thereto doth neede,<br>that can expresse the life of things indeed.</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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