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 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, Lilies 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* lined.