 | Otia Sacra Optima Fides |  |
Sola Bella che piace.
'Tis but a folly to be nice,Since liking sets on Beauty price,
And what we doe affect alone,
Becomes to Each His Paragon:
All Colour, Shape, or Form, we know
Improve to best to those think so;
For where Esteem its Anchor wets,
There grows true Pearl, no Counterfets.
Were She as Crooked as a Pin,
And yet could Love, it were no sin
To love again; for Writers tell,
That love hath in't the Loadstons spell:
Were She proportion'd like the Sphere,
No Limb or Joint Irregular;
Yet to my fancy if she Jarr,
I shall not sail by such a Starr:
Did She out-vie the new-born Day,
Or th' richest Treasuries of May
So that what Skies or Flowers put on,
Give place to her Complexion,
I'l sooner deem a black Wench white,
Thats suiting to my Appetite.
Well, in conclusion, hath She Fair,
Or Brown, or Black, or Golden hair
Where one is Cupid struck, Venus is there.
| Otia Sacra Optima Fides | |