My lady woke upon a morning fair, What time Apollo?s chariot takes the skies, And, fain to fill with arrows from her eyes His empty quiver, Love was standing there: I saw two apples that her breast doth bear None such the close of the Hesperides Yields; nor hath Venus any such as these, Nor she that had of nursling Mars the care. Even such a bosom, and so fair it was, Pure as the perfect work of Phidias, That sad Andromeda?s discomfiture Left bare, when Perseus passed her on a day, And pale as Death for fear of Death she lay, With breast as marble cold, as marble pure.