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I Do Not Love Thee For That Fair

 I do not love thee for that fair
Rich fan of thy most curious hair;
Though the wires thereof be drawn
Finer than threads of lawn,
And are softer than the leaves
On which the subtle spider weaves.
I do not love thee for those flowers Growing on thy cheeks, love's bowers; Though such cunning them hath spread, None can paint them white and red: Love's golden arrows thence are shot, Yet for them I love thee not.
I do not love thee for those soft Red coral lips I've kissed so oft, Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard To speech whence music still is heard; Though from those lips a kiss being taken Mighty tyrants melt, and death awaken.
I do not love thee, O my fairest, For that richest, for that rarest Silver pillar, which stands under Thy sound head, that globe of wonder; Though that neck be whiter far Than towers of polished ivory are.

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