Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes,

Which, star-like, sparkle in their skies;

Nor be you proud, that you can see

All hearts your captives, yours, yet free;

Be you not proud of that rich hair

Which wantons with the love-sick air;

When as that ruby which you wear,

Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,

Will last to be a precious stone,

When all your world of beauty's gone.


Robert Herrick