LXVII
TRUE LOVELINESS.
It is not beauty I demand,
A crystal brow, the moon’s despair,
Nor the snow’s daughter, a white hand,
Nor mermaid’s yellow pride of hair:
Tell me not of your starry eyes, 5
Your lips that seem on roses fed,
Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies,
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:—
A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks,