Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies | ||
His Choyce.
What care I though she be faireHair snow-like, or Sun-like eye,
If in that beauty I not share,
Were she deformed, what care I.
What care I though she be foule
Haire, swarthy hand, or Sun-burnt eye,
So long as I enjoy her soule,
Let her be so, why what care I.
Dim sight is cozened with a glass,
3
Such gold in melting leave more dross
Then some unpolish't prices share,
Be she faire, or foule, or either,
Or made up of all together,
Be her heart mine, haire, hand, or eye
Be what it will, why what care I.
Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies | ||