Classic Poem

Of thee (kind boy) I ask no red and white
to make up my delight,
no odd becomming graces,
Black eyes, or little know-not-whats, in faces;
Make me but mad enough, give me good store
Of Love, for her I Court
I ask no more,
'Tis love in love that makes the sport.

There's no such thing as that we beauty call,
it is meer cousenage all;
for though some long ago
Like't certain colours mingled so and so,
That doth not tie me now from chusing new,

If I a fancy take
To black and blue,
That fancy doth it beauty make.

'Tis not the meat; but 'tis the appetite
makes eating a delight,
and if I like one dish
More than another, that a Pheasant is;
What in our watches, that in us is found,
So to the height and nick
We up be wound,
No matter by what hand or trick.