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Fair flowers that are not gathered in their prime

Rot, and consume themselves in little time.

‘Were I hard-favoured, foul, or wrinkled-old,

Ill-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,

O’er-worn, despisèd, rheumatic, and cold,

Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice,

Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee.

But having no defects, why dost abhor me?

‘Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow.

Mine eyes are grey, and bright, and quick in turning.

My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow.

My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning.

My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,

Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt.

‘Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear;

Or like a fairy, trip upon the green;

Or like a nymph, with long, dishevelled hair,

Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen.

Love is a spirit all compact of fire,

Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.

‘Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie:

These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me.

Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky

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