Give me, he said, your russet hair
Once for my lips, and it's little I care
Though your apples rot as they ripen there.
Twice to save me, he said, from sin,
Give me your beautiful golden skin
That I may kiss it from forehead to chin.
Nay, and lest hunger still gnaw, he said,
Give me, belovèd, your mouth's dear red:
Though I starve in the dawn I will still be fed.