He That Commends Me To

She Says I Am Not Fair, That I Lack Manners; She Calls Me Proud, And That She Could Not Love Me, Were Man As Rare As Phoenix.

Give To A Gracious Message An Host Of Tongues, But Let Ill Tidings Tell Themselves When They Be Felt.

Things Base And Vile, Holding No Quantity, Love Can Transpose To Form And Dignity

Thou Art As Tyrannous, So As Thou Art, As Those Whose Beauties Proudly Make Them Cruel; For Well Thou Know'st To My Dear Doting Heart Thou Art The Fairest And Most Precious Jewel.

Love's Mind Of Judgment Rarely Hath A Taste: Wings And No Eyes Figure Unheedy Haste.