Of thee, kind boy, I ask no red and white, To make up my delight; No odd becoming graces, Black eyes, or little know-not-whats in faces; Make me but mad enough, give me good store Of love for her I count; I ask no more, 'Tis love in love that makes the sport. There's no such thing as that we beauty call, It is mere cozenage all; For though some, long ago, Liked certain colors mingled so and so, That doth not tie me now from choosing new; If I a fancy take To black and blue, That fancy doth it beauty make. 'Tis not the meat, but 'tis the appetite Makes eating a delight; And I like one dish More than another, that a pheasant is; What in our watches, that in us is found: So the height and nick We up be wound, No matter by what hand or trick. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE; OR, THE EMIGRANT'S ADIEU TO HIS BIRTHPLACE by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM THE BELL by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES MARY'S GIRLHOOD (FOR A PICTURE): 1 by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI FELISE by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE THE SPIRIT OF THE SABBATH by ISIDORE G. ASCHER ON THE AMOROUS AND PATHETIC STORY OF ARCADIUS AND SEPHA by L. B. |