To Dianeme

SWEET, be not proud of those two eyes Which star-like sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud, that you can see All hearts your captives; yours yet free. Be you not proud of that rich hair Which wantons with the love-sick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty’s gone.