The Resolve

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Tell me not of a face that's fair,
 Nor lip and cheek that's red,
Nor of the tresses of her hair,
 Nor curls in order laid;
Nor of a rare seraphic voice,
 That like an angel sings;
Though if I were to take my choice,
 I would have all these things.
But if thou wilt have me love
 And it must be a she,
The only argument can move
Is, that she will love me.

The glories of your ladies be
 But metaphors of things;
And but resemble what we see
 Each common object brings.
Roses out-red their lips and cheeks,
 Lilies their whiteness stain;
What fool is he that shadows seeks
 And may the substance gain?
Then if thou'lt have me love a lass,
 Let it be one that's kind,
Else I'm a servant to the glass,
 That's with Canary* lined.

© Alexander Brome