Something more than
Taffeta or tissue can,
Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
More than the spoil
Of shop, or silkworm's toil,
Or a bought blush, or a set smile.
A Face that's best
By its own beauty dressed,
And can alone commend the rest
A Face, made up
Out of no other shop
Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.
A Cheek, where youth
And blood, with pen of truth,
Write what the reader sweetly ru'th.
A Cheek, where grows
More than a morning rose,
Which to no box its being owes.
Lips, where all day
A lover's kiss may play,
Yet carry nothing thence away.
Looks, that oppress
Their richest tires, but dress
And clothe their simplest nakedness.
Eyes, that displace
The neighbor diamond, and outface
That sunshine by their own sweet grace.
Tresses, that wear
Jewels but to declare
How much themselves more precious are: