STRIVE not, vain lover, to be fine, Thy silk 's the silkworm's, and not thine; You lessen to a fly your mistress' thought, To think it may be in a cobweb caught. What though her thin transparent lawn Thy heart in a strong net hath drawn: Not all the arms the God of Fire e'er made Can the soft bulwarks of nak'd Love invade. Be truly fine, then, and yourself dress In her fair soul's immac'late glass: Then by reflection you may have the bliss Perhaps to see what a true fineness is, When all your gawderies will fit Those only that are poor in wit: She that a clinquant outside doth adore, Dotes on a gilded statue, and no more. |