Song III. The Resolve

Tell me not of a face that's fair,
Nor lip and cheek that's red,
Nor of the tresses of her hair,
Nor curles in order laid;
Nor of a rare seraphick voice,
That like an Angel sings;
Though if I were to take my choice,
I would have all these things
But if thou wilt have me love
And it must be a she,
The only argument can move
Is, that she will love me.

The glories of your Ladies be
But Metaphors of things;
And but resemble what we see
Each common object brings.
Roses out-red their lips and cheeks,
Lillies their whiteness stain:
What fool is he that shadows seeks
And may the substance gain?
Then if thou'lt have me love a Lass
Let it be one that's kind,
Else I'm a servant to the glass
That's with Canary lin'd.