I MUST complain, yet do enjoy my love; She is too fair, too rich in lovely parts: Thence is my grief, for Nature, while she strove With all her graces and divinest arts To form her too too beautiful of hue, She had no leisure left to make her true. Should I, aggrieved, then wish she were less fair? That were repugnant to mine own desires. She is admired, new lovers still repair, That kindles daily love's forgetful fires. Rest, jealous thoughts, and thus resolve at last,— She hath more beauty than becomes the chaste. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE STRAPLESS by KAREN SWENSON THE PLOUGH; A LANDSCAPE IN BERKSHIRE by RICHARD HENGIST (HENRY) HORNE THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 26. MID-RAPTURE by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI AN EPIGRAM ON SCOLDING by JONATHAN SWIFT ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE PASSERS BY by AL-RADI BILLAH |