Themselves to make a blush for you.
Nor chide with such a cold constraint,
As if you laid the rose in snow;
For this the summer stores her paint,
The dappled twilights overflow
With motley colors, pied and quaint,
For kisses that in flowers do grow.
Nor pout and tease: you did not mean
So sweet a thing. Abide this test:
In open markets grades are seen