Of thee, kind boy, I ask no red and white,
To make up my delight;
No odd becoming graces,
Black eyes, or little know-not-whats in faces;
Make me but mad enough, give me good store
Of love for her I count;
I ask no more,
’Tis love in love that makes the sport.
There’s no such thing as that we beauty call,
It is mere cozenage all;
For though some, long ago,
Liked certain colors mingled so and so,
That doth not tie me now from choosing new;
If I a fancy take
To black and blue,
That fancy doth it beauty make.
’Tis not the meat, but ’tis the appetite
Makes eating a delight;
And if I like one dish
More than another, that a pheasant is;
What in our watches, that in us is found:
So to the height and nick
We up be wound,
No matter by what hand or trick.
