Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair: Her brow shades frowns, although her eyes are sunny, Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair, And her disdains are gall, her favors honey. A modest maid, decked with a blush of honor, Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love; The wonder of all eyes that look upon her, Sacred on earth, designed a saint above. Chastity and Beauty, which were deadly foes, Live reconciled friends within her brow; And had she pity to conjoin with those, Then who had heard the plaints I utter now? Oh had she not been fair and thus unkind, My muse had slept, and none had known my mind. |