Nature did her so much right,
As she scorns the help of art;
In as many vitues dight
As ne'er yet embraced a heart;
So much good, so truly tried,-
Some for less were deified.
Wit she hath, without desire
To make known how much she hath;
And her anger flames no higher
Than may fitly sweeten wrath;
Full of pity as may be,
Though, perhaps, not so to me.
Reason masters every sense,
And her virtues grace her birth;
Lovely as all excellence,
Modest in her most of mirth;
Likelihood enough to prove
Only worth could kindle love.
Such she is; and if you know
Such a one as I have sung,
Be she brown, or fair, or so,
That she be but somewhile young;
Be assured 'tis she, or none,
That I love, and love alone.
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Copyright � 1998 Michael Ammar.
