Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair; 
Her brow shades frowns, although her eyes are sunny; 
Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair; 
And her disdains are gall, her favors honey. 
A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honor, 
Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love, 
The wonder of all eyes that look upon her, 
Sacred on earth, design'd a saint above. 
Chastity and Beauty, which are deadly foes, 
Live reconciled friends within her brow; 
And had she pity to conjoin with those, 
Then who had heard the plaints I utter now? 
O had she not been fair and thus unkind, 
My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind.