What hackneyed image should I now employ
To extol thy unsurpassable grace?
That of flower, angel or such a toy,
Never to do justice to thine own face?
No! None but thy living self is my subject;
And my poor pen must praise thy ev'ry part.
No offence in the matter thou'lt object;
If any, blame the muses, 'tis their art.
Those deep dark alluring eyes mine so crave
Are set within a frame beyond dissection;
And thy auburn crown rests ever so brave
On the daintiest neck since world's conception.
Thine are gorgeous arms and delicate hands;
And since mine touch'd thy fingers I won't sit.
Upon marble columns thy figure stands;
Vulcan with his skill would not forge thy feet.
But beyond all that, anyone can see:
Thy gracious smile is the best part of thee.