“She is not fair to outward view”;
No beauty hers of form or face'
She hath no witchery, 'tis true,
No grace.

Nor pretty wit, nor well-stored mind,
Nor azure eyes, nor golden hair
Hath she. She is—I am not blind—
Not fair.

What makes me love her, then? say you,
For such a maid is not my wont.
Love her! What makes you think I do?