Nay but you, who do not love her,
Is she not pure gold, my mistress?
Holds earth aughtspeak truthabove her?
Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,
And this last fairest tress of all,
So fair, see, ere I let it fall?
Because, you spend your lives in praising;
To praise, you search the wide world over:
Then why not witness, calmly gazing,
If earth holds aughtspeak truthabove her?
Above this tress, and this, I touch
But cannot praise, I love so much!