I. <br /> <br />Strive not, vain lover, to be fine; <br />Thy silk's the silk-worm's, and not thine: <br />You lessen to a fly your mistriss' thought, <br />To think it may be in a cobweb caught. <br />What, though her thin transparent lawn <br />Thy heart in a strong net hath drawn: <br />Not all the arms the god of fire ere made <br />Can the soft bulwarks of nak'd love invade. <br /> <br />II. <br /> <br />Be truly fine, then, and yourself dress <br />In her fair soul's immac'late glass. <br />Then by reflection you may have the bliss <br />Perhaps to see what a true fineness is; <br />When all your gawderies will fit <br />Those only that are poor in wit. <br />She that a clinquant outside doth adore, <br />Dotes on a gilded statue and no more.<br /><br />Richard Lovelace<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/strive-not-vain-lover/
