I would my Love were not so fair
In sweet external beauty:
And dreamt less of her charms so rare,
And more of homely duty.
The rose that blooms in pudent pride
When pluckt will pout most sorely;
P'rhaps she I'm wooing for my bride
Will grow more self-willed hourly.
Her form might shame the graceful fay's;
Her face wears all life's graces:
But wayward thoughts and wayward ways
Make far from pretty faces.
I would my Love were not so fair
(I mean it when I breathe it):
What though each hair be golden hair,
If temper ill dwells 'neath it?
Her lips would make the red rose blush,
Her voice trolls graceful phrases,
Her brow is calm as Evening's hush,
Her teeth as white as daises.
Her cheeks are fresh as infant Day's,
Round which cling Beauty's traces:
But wayward thoughts and wayward ways
Make far from pretty faces.