I must complain, yet do enjoy, enjoy my love
She is too fair, too rich in beauty's parts
Thence is my grief for nature while she strove
With all her graces and divinest arts
To form her too, too beautiful of hue
She had no leisure, she had no leisure
No leisure left to make her true

Should I agrieved wish she were less, she were less fair
That were repugnant to my own desires
She is admired, new suitors still repair
That kindles daily love's forgetful fires
Rest jealous thoughts, and thus resolve at last
She hath more beauty, she hath more beauty
More beauty than becomes the chaste