Vi

Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair; Her brow shades frowns although her eyes are sunny; Her smiles are lightning though her pride despair; And her disdains are gall, her favours honey; A modest maid, decked with a blush of honour, Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love; The wonder of all eyes that look upon her, Sacred on earth, designed a saint above. Chastity and beauty, which were deadly foes, Live reconciled friends within her brow; And had she pity to conjoin with those, Then who had heard the plaints I utter now? O had she not been fair and thus unkind, My Muse had slept and none had known my mind!