Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

How much your beauties owe,
O, sweetest sweet, to me,
I'd have you, dear one, know,
Though in your glass you see
How fair you can but be.

There will you see those eyes,
I know, more sweetly bright
Than stars in frostiest skies,
But, if you see them right,
I've added to their light.

Those cheeks—that rippled hair,
Whereon the sun will lie,
'Twill show you both most fair,
That I do not deny,
But I've enriched them—I.

So while your laughing wit
By nature's given, I own,
My praise has lent to it,
Point, to it, else unknown,
Due to my pen alone.

469

The music of your tongue,
All graces you possess,
Had I not, dear one, sung
Their fame, their praise were less;
Mine is their perfectness.

So you are jewelled o'er
With diamonds of my mind,
And marvels, all adore,
My fancy makes them find,
To which they else were blind.

And living song ensures
Charms that shall ever please;
These that my pen makes yours,
Whatever Time may seize,
He robs you not of these.

Then, since I've to you shown
That it must be confest
I so much beauty own
Of that with which you're blest,
Why not make mine, the rest?

An ingrate you'll not prove;
These gifts I, to you, gave
To treasure, that my love
These and the rest, might have,
That I from fading save.

Then, nobly honest be!
Those beauties, to me, due,
Give with yourself to me;
They'll still be owned by you,
Though mine you make them, too.