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Sonnet 9 by Thomas Lodge
The dewy roseate Morn had with her hairs
In sundry sorts the Indian clime adorned;
And now her eyes, apparelled in tears,
The loss of lovely Memnon long had mourned;
When as she spied the nymph whom I admire,
Combing her locks, of which the yellow gold
Made blush the beauty of her curled wire,
Which heaven itself with wonder might behold,
Then, red with shame, her reverend locks she rent,
And weeping hid the beauty of her face;
The flower of fancy wrought such discontent.
The sighs, which midst the air she breathed a space,
A three-days' stormy tempest did maintain,
Her shame a fire, her eyes a swelling rain.
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