It must hurt to knowI am your most beautiful regretBut you wouldn't realize thatCause I am a museum full of artThe landscape of your favorite placeBut you always have your eyes shut
When my mum said I deserve betterI snap to your defense out of habitHe still loves me I shoutShe looks at me with wise eyesThe way a mum looks at her daughterFeeling it is the kind of thingEven she cannot fixIt means nothing to me if he loves youIf he cannot do a single wretched thing about it
When I behold a forest spreadWith silken trees upon thy head;And when I see that other dressOf flowers set in comeliness;When I behold another graceIn the ascent of curious lace,Which, like a pinnacle, doth shewThe top, and the top-gallant too;Then, when I see thy tresses boundInto an oval, square, or round,And knit in knots far more than I.Can tell by tongue, or True-love tie;Next, when those lawny films I seePlay with a wild civility;And all those airy silks to flow,
Sweet serene sky-like flower,Haste to adorn her bower;From thy long cloudy bedShoot forth thy damask head!New-startled blush of Flora,The grief of pale Aurora,Who will contest no more,Haste, haste to strew her floor!Vermilion ball that's givenFrom lip to lip in heaven,Love's couch's coverlet,Haste, haste to make her bed!Dear offspring of pleased VenusAnd jolly plump Silenus,Haste, haste to deck the hairOf the only sweetly fair!