It is not Beauty I demand,

           A crystal brow, the moon's despair,

           Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand,

           Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair:

           Tell me not of your starry eyes,

           Your lips that seem on roses fed,

           Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies,

           Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:—

           A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks

           Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,

           A breath that softer music speaks

           Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,

           These are but gauds: nay what are lips?

           Coral beneath the ocean-stream,

           Whose brink when your adventurer slips

           Full oft he perisheth on them.

           And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft

           That wave hot youth to fields of blood?

           Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,

           Do Greece or Ilium any good?

           Eyes can with baleful ardour burn;

           Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed;

           There's many a white hand holds an urn

           With lovers hearts to dust consumed.

           For crystal brows there's nought within;

           They are but empty cells for pride;

           He who the Syren's hair would win

           Is mostly strangled in the tide.

           Give me, instead of Beauty's bust,

           A tender heart, a loyal mind

           Which with temptation I would trust,

           Yet never link'd with error find,—

           One in whose gentle bosom I

           Could pour my secret heart of woes,

           Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly

           That hides his murmurs in the rose,—

           My earthly Comforter! whose love

           So indefeasible might be

           That, when my spirit wonn'd above,

           Hers could not stay, for sympathy.

              He that loves a rosy cheek

               Or a coral lip admires,

              Or from star-like eyes doth seek

               Fuel to maintain his fires;

              As old Time makes these decay,

              So his flames must waste away.

              But a smooth and steadfast mind,

               Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,

              Hearts with equal love combined,

               Kindle never-dying fires:—

              Where these are not, I despise

              Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.

           Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes

           Which starlike sparkle in their skies;

           Nor be you proud, that you can see

           All hearts your captives; yours yet free:

           Be you not proud of that rich hair

           Which wantons with the lovesick air;

           Whenas that ruby which you wear,

           Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,

           Will last to be a precious stone,

           When all your world of beauty's gone.

             Go, lovely Rose!

           Tell her, that wastes her time and me,

             That now she knows,

           When I resemble her to thee,

           How sweet and fair she seems to be.

             Tell her that's young,

           And shuns to have her graces spied,

             That hadst thou sprung

           In deserts, where no men abide,

           Thou must have uncommended died.

             Small is the worth

           Of beauty from the light retired:

             Bid her come forth,

           Suffer herself to be desired,

           And not blush so to be admired.

             Then die! that she

           The common fate of all things rare

             May read in thee:

           How small a part of time they share

           That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

           Drink to me only with thine eyes,

             And I will pledge with mine;

           Or leave a kiss but in the cup

             And I'll not look for wine.

           The thirst that from the soul doth rise

             Doth ask a drink divine;

           But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

             I would not change for thine.