Poems Divine, and Humane | ||
The Choyce.
What care I though she be faireHaire, snow-like hand, or Sun-like eye,
If in that beauty I not share,
Were she deformed, what care I.
What care I though shee be foule,
Haire swarthy hand, or sunne burnt eye,
So long as I enjoy her soule,
Let her be so, why what care I.
Dimme sight is cosened with a glasse,
Of gaudy gowne, or humerous haire,
Such gold in melting leave more drosse
Than some unpolish't prices share,
Be she faire, or foule, or either,
Or made up of both together,
Be her heart mine, haire, hand, or eye
Be what it will, why what care I.
Poems Divine, and Humane | ||