Couplets about their Subjects, #3

Fair posy pot, roots of grace inside,
Tell, where dost thine flower hide?

She, ‘pon whom the sunbeams rest,
Constant-clad, in chaste-most dress,

Beauty worthy, utmost recherche,
Yet understand, I do not wish to pen clichés,

Can’t resist: Her lips, fine vermillion,
Hoard of sweetest wines within.

Eyes black, and hair also,
All in frame: chiaroscuro.

On she, said I my ample piece
Where be'est she, tell me, please!

I've waited days: long looked I 'pon the clock
Wherefrom none came; 'nother nock.

Ah, lament mine losing what was dear,
And yet, truly never, she was near.