There is not in the wide world a maiden so sweet
As the lass for whose favour my bosom doth beat.
Oh, the best hope I cherish in gloom would depart
If that maid should grow fickle, and heed not my heart.
Yet it is not that Nature hath dowered her face
With brightest of beauty and sweetest of grace;
’Tis not the dear magic of figure or feet;
Oh, no, she’s the ugliest girl in the street.
’Tis that gold, the desired of my bosom, is there,
Which makes ev’ry grim line of deformity fair;