A Pretty Woman

I.     That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,     And the blue eye     Dear and dewy,     And that infantine fresh air of hers! II.     To think men cannot take you, Sweet,     And enfold you,     Ay, and hold you,     And so keep you what they make you, Sweet! III.     You like us for a glance, you know     For a words sake     Or a swords sake,     Alls the same, whateer the chance, you know. IV.     And in turn we make you ours, we say     You and youth too,     Eyes and mouth too,     All the face composed of flowers, we say. V.     Alls our own, to make the most of, Sweet     Sing and say for,     Watch and pray for,     Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet! VI.     But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,     Though we prayed you,     Paid you, brayed you     In a mortar for you could not, Sweet! VII.     So, we leave the sweet face fondly there:     Be its beauty     Its sole duty!     Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there! VIII.     And while the face lies quiet there,     Who shall wonder     That I ponder     A conclusion? I will try it there. IX.     As, why must one, for the love foregone,     Scout mere liking?     Thunder-striking     Earth, the heaven, we looked above for, gone! X.     Why, with beauty, needs there money be     Love with liking?     Crush the fly-king     In his gauze, because no honey-bee? XI.     May not liking be so simple-sweet,     If love grew there     Twould undo there     All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet? XII.     Is the creature too imperfect,     Would you mend it     And so end it?     Since not all addition perfects aye! XIII.     Or is it of its kind, perhaps,     Just perfection     Whence, rejection     Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps? XIV.     Shall we burn up, tread that face at once     Into tinder,     And so hinder     Sparks from kindling all the place at once? XV.     Or else kiss away ones soul on her?     Your love-fancies!     A sick man sees     Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her! XVI.     Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,     Plucks a mould-flower     For his gold flower,     Uses fine things that efface the rose: XVII.     Rosy rubies make its cup more rose,     Precious metals     Ape the petals,     Last, some old king locks it up, morose! XVIII.     Then how grace a rose? I know a way!     Leave it, rather.     Must you gather?     Smell, kiss, wear it at last, throw away!