'Tis not my ladies face that makes me love her,
Though beauty there doth rest,
Enough t' inflame the breast
On one, that never did discover
The glories of a face before;
But I that have seen thousands more
See nought in hers, but what in others are,
Only because I think she's fair , she's fair .

'Tis not her vertues , nor those vast perfections ,
That crowd together in her,
Ingage my soul to win her,
For those are only brief Collections ,
Of what's in man in folio writ
Which by their imitative wit
Women like Apes and Children strive to do;
But we that have the substance slight the show .

'Tis not her birth , her friends , nor yet her treasure
My free-born soul can hold;
For chains are chains though gold;
Nor do I court her for my pleasure,
Nor for that old Moralitie
Do I love her, 'cause she loves me !
For that's no love but gratitude , and all
Loves that from fortunes rise, with fortunes fall.

If friends , or birth , created love within me,
Then Princes I'll adore,
And only scorn the poor ,
If vertue or good parts could win me,
I'll turn Platonick , and ne'er vex
My soul with difference of sex
And he that loves his Lady 'cause she 's fair,
Delights his eye , so loves himself, nor her .

Reason and Wisdom are to love high Treason ,
Nor can be truly love,
Whose flame 's not far above,
And far beyond his Wit or Reason ,
Then ask no reason for my fires,
For infinite are my desires.
Something there is moves me to love, and I
Do know I love, but know not how , nor why .