Her hair is much too fine and curly;
Her lips are merely Cupid’s bow;
Her teeth absurdly white and pearly;
But still we all have faults, you know.
So, spite of this and spite of that,
Whate’er betide, whate’er befall,
These things let others cavil at;
I love my sweetheart, faults and all.
From such defects this little lady
Of mine is anything but free.