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Richard Lovelace - Strive Not, Vain Lover
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I.

Strive not, vain lover, to be fine; 
Thy silk`s the silk-worm`s, and not thine: 
You lessen to a fly your mistriss` thought, 
To think it may be in a cobweb caught. 
What, though her thin transparent lawn 
Thy heart in a strong net hath drawn: 
Not all the arms the god of fire ere made 
Can the soft bulwarks of nak`d love invade.

II.

Be truly fine, then, and yourself dress 
In her fair soul`s immac`late glass. 
Then by reflection you may have the bliss 
Perhaps to see what a true fineness is; 
When all your gawderies will fit 
Those only that are poor in wit. 
She that a clinquant outside doth adore, 
Dotes on a gilded statue and no more.
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