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I.
Strive
not, vain lover, to be fine;
Thy silk's the
silk-worm's, and not thine:
You lessen to a fly your
mistriss' thought,
To think it may be in a cobweb
caught.
What, though her thin transparent lawn
Thy
heart in a strong net hath drawn:
Not all the arms
the god of fire ere made
Can the soft bulwarks of
nak'd love invade.
II.
Be truly fine, then,
and yourself dress
In her fair soul's immac'late
glass.
Then by reflection you may have the bliss
Perhaps to see what a true fineness is;
When all your
gawderies will fit
Those only that are poor in wit.
She that a clinquant outside doth adore,
Dotes on a
gilded statue and no more.
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