Of thee, kind boy, I ask no red and white,
To make up my delight ;
No odd becoming graces,
Black eyes, or little know-not-whats in faces;
Make me but mad enough, give me good store
Of love for her I court;
I ask no more,
'Tis love in love that makes the sport.
There's no such thing as that we beauty call,
It is mere cozenage all;
For though some long ago
Liked certain colours mingled so and so,
That doth not tie me now from choosing new:
If I fancy take
To black and blue,
That fancy doth it beauty make.
'Tis not the meant, but 'tis the appetite
Makes eating a delight,
And if I like one dish
More than another, that a pheasant is ;
What in our watches, that in us is found ;
So to the height and nick
We up be wound,
No matter by what hand or trick.