O MY Dearest, I shall grieve thee, | |
| When I swear (yet, Sweet, believe me:) | |
| By thine eyes, the tempting book | |
| On which even crabbed old men look,— | |
| I swear to thee, though none abhor them, | 5 |
| Yet I do not love thee for them. | |
| |
| I do not love thee for that fair | |
| Rich fan of thy most curious hair; | |
| Though the wires thereof be drawn | |
| Finer than the threads of lawn, | 10 |
| And are softer than the leaves | |
| On which the subtle spinner weaves. | |
| |
| I do not love thee for those flowers | |
| Growing on thy cheeks—Love’s bowers; | |
| Though such cunning hath them spread, | 15 |
| None can part their white and red; | |
| Love’s golden arrows thence are shot: | |
| Yet for them I love thee not. | |
| |
| I do not love thee for those soft | |
| Red coral lips I’ve kiss’d so oft; | 20 |
| Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard | |
| To speech, whence music still is heard: | |
| Though from those lips a kiss being taken | |
| Would Tyrants melt, and Death awaken. | |
| |
| I do not love thee, O my fairest! | 25 |
| For that richest—for that rarest | |
| Silver pillar which stands under | |
| Thy round head, that globe of wonder: | |
| Though that neck be whiter far | |
| Than towers of polish’d ivory are. | 30 |
| |
| I do not love thee for those mountains | |
| Hill’d with snow; whence milky fountains | |
| (Sugar’d sweets, as sirup’d berries,) | |
| Must one day run, through pipes of cherries: | |
| O how much those breasts do move me! | 35 |
| Yet for them I do not love thee. | |
| |
| I do not love thee for that belly, | |
| Sleek as satin, soft as jelly; | |
| Though within that crystal Mound | |
| Heaps of treasure may be found, | 40 |
| So rich, that for the least of them | |
| A king might leave his diadem. | |
| |
| I do not love thee for those thighs, | |
| Whose alabaster rocks do rise | |
| So high and even, that they stand | 45 |
| Like sea-marks to some happy land: | |
| Happy they, whose eyes have seen them, | |
| But happier he that sails between them. | |
| |
| I love thee not for thy moist palm, | |
| Though the dew thereof be balm; | 50 |
| Nor for thy pretty leg and foot, | |
| Although it be the precious root | |
| On which this goodly cedar grows: | |
| Sweet, I love thee not for those. | |
| |
| Nor for thy wit, though pure and quick, | 55 |
| Whose substance no arithmetic | |
| Can number down; nor for the charms | |
| Thou makest with thy embracing arms: | |
| Though in them one night to lie, | |
| Dearest, I would gladly die. | 60 |
| |
| I love not for those eyes, nor hair, | |
| Nor cheeks, nor lips, nor teeth so rare, | |
| Nor for thy speech, thy neck, nor breast, | |
| Nor for thy belly, nor the rest; | |
| Nor for thy hand nor foot so small: | 65 |
| But, would’st thou know, dear sweet?—for All! | |
| |
