Sonet 57

Whil'st th'Apenin seems cloth'd with snows to vaunt,
As if that their pure white all hues did staine,
I match them with thy matchlesse faire againe,
Whose lillies haue a luster, that they want:
But when some die, train'd with a pleasant show,
In their plaine-seeming depths, as many do,
Then I remember how Aurora too,
With louely rigor thousands doth orethrow.
Thus is it fatall by th'effects we know,
That beautie must do harme, more then delight:
For lo the snow, the whitest of the white,
Comes from the clouds, t'engender yce below:
So she with whom for beautie none compares,
From clouds of cold disdaine, raines downe despaires.