Alexander Brome[1620-1666]2 5 / 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 curls in order laid,Nor of a rare seraphic voiceThat like an angel sings;Though if I were to take my choiceI would have all these things:But if that thou wilt have me love,[370]And it must be a she,The only argument can moveIs that she will love me .
¶The glories of your ladies beBut metaphors of things,And but resemble what we seeEach common object brings.Roses out-red their lips and cheeks,Lilies their whiteness stain;What fool is he that shadows seeksAnd 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 glassThat's with Canary lined.