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John Suckling - Sonnet II. - Of thee, kind boy, I ask no red and white,
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Of thee, kind boy, I ask no red and white,
To make up my delight;
No odd becoming graces,
Black eyes, or little know-not-whats in faces;
Make me but mad enough, give me good store
Of love for her I court;
I ask no more,
`Tis love in love that makes the sport.

There`s no such thing as what we beauty call,
It is mere cozenage all;
For though some, long ago, 
Liked certain colors mingled so and so, 
That doth not tie me now from choosing new;
If I fancy take
To black and blue,
That fancy doth it beauty make.

`Tis not the meat, but `tis the appetite
Makes eating a delight;
And if I like one dish
More than another, that a pheasant is;
What in our watches, that in us is found,
So to the height and nick
We up be wound,
No matter by what hand or trick.
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