Never join’d head and body together,
Like nice crook’d neck’d squash on the ground,
Long whiten’d by winter-like weather.
Should I set forth the rest of her charms,
I might by some phrase that’s improper,
Give modesty’s bosom alarms,
Which I wouldn’t do for a copper.
Should I mention her gait or her air,
You might think I intended to banter;
She moves with more grace, you would swear,