My heart is not of men to others take,
Nor battle for deceptive perjury
That swear the men that thee a statue make,
Else I become thy victim’d sorcery.
The army of a thousand perfect heavens
Clash for thee, a prize of many fortunes;
Striketh men’s frail hearts a hundred-seven
Arrows – blood that flows from all proportions;
Art thou so abundant in thy beauty
That all should thus cast their meaningless lives?
Make thyself not product of a snooty
Brat, for art thyself in heaven’s archives -
If thou art there found with all the statues,
Be thyself the toy thou should’st bemuse.