I MUST complain, yet do enjoy my love; She is too fair, too rich in lovely parts: Thence is my grief, for Nature, while she strove With all her graces and divinest arts To form her too too beautiful of hue, She had no leisure left to make her true. Should I, aggrieved, then wish she were less fair? That were repugnant to mine own desires. She is admired, new lovers still repair, That kindles daily love's forgetful fires. Rest, jealous thoughts, and thus resolve at last,— She hath more beauty than becomes the chaste. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE by EMMA LAZARUS HATRED by GWENDOLYN B. BENNETT THIRD BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 20 by THOMAS CAMPION E TENEBRIS [FROM THE SHADOWS] by OSCAR WILDE WITH COLORS GAY by HOWARD S. ABBOTT THE LESSER BEAUTY by MARGARET STEELE ANDERSON WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF OUR BELOVED GENERAL STONEWALL JACKSON by CAROLINE AUGUSTA BALL |