I Do Not Love Thee For That Fair

I do not love thee for that fair     Rich fan of thy most curious hair;     Though the wires thereof be drawn     Finer than threads of lawn,     And are softer than the leaves     On which the subtle spider weaves.     I do not love thee for those flowers     Growing on thy cheeks, loves bowers;     Though such cunning them hath spread,     None can paint them white and red:     Loves golden arrows thence are shot,     Yet for them I love thee not.     I do not love thee for those soft     Red coral lips Ive kissed so oft,     Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard     To speech whence music still is heard;     Though from those lips a kiss being taken     Mighty tyrants melt, and death awaken.     I do not love thee, O my fairest,     For that richest, for that rarest     Silver pillar, which stands under     Thy sound head, that globe of wonder;     Though that neck be whiter far     Than towers of polished ivory are.