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Poem	In Nature's pieces still I see Some error that might mended be; Something my wish could still remove, Alter or add; but my fair love Was fram'd by hands far more divine, For she hath every beauteous line: Yet I had been far happier, Had Nature, that made me, made her. Then likeness might (that love creates) Have made her love what now she hates; Yet I confess I cannot spare From her just shape the smallest hair; Nor need I beg from all the store Of heaven for her one beauty more. She hath too much divinity for me: You gods, teach her some more humanity.
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