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
Of love for her I court;
I ask no more,'Tis love in love that makes the sport.
There's no such thing as what 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 fancy
To black and blue,
That fancy doth it beauty make.'Tis not the meat, but 'tis the
Makes eating a delight;
And if I like one
More than another, that a pheasant is;
What in our watches, that in us is found,
So to the height and
We up be wound,
No matter by what hand or trick.
