Dost thou love the blue to see
In a boundless summer sky?
Sweeter blue I'll show to thee
In the orbit of an eye!

Roses of the purest red
Thou in every clime dost seek;
I can show a richer bed
In a single damask cheek!

Thou wilt talk of virgin snow
Seen in icy Norway land;
Brighter, purer, I can show
In a little virgin hand!

Still for glittering locks and gay
Thou wilt ever cite the Sun;
Here's a simple tress—I pray,
Has he such a golden one?

Choose each vaunted gem and flower
That must, sure! with triumph meet;
Come then to my Beauty's bower,
Come—and cast them at her feet!