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I hope my master’s suit will be but cold,

Since she respects my mistress’ love so much.

Alas, how love can trifle with itself!

Here is her picture: let me see; I think

If I had such a tire, this face of mine

Were full as lovely as is this of hers;

And yet the painter flatter’d her a little,

Unless I flatter with myself too much.

Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow:

If that be all the difference in his love,

I’ll get me such a color’d periwig.

Her eyes are grey as glass, and so are mine;

Ay, but her forehead’s low, and mine’s as high.

What should it be that he respects in her,

But I can make respective in myself,

If this fond Love were not a blinded god?

Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up,

For ’tis thy rival. O thou senseless form,

Thou shalt be worshipp’d, kiss’d, lov’d, and ador’d;

And were there sense in his idolatry,

My substance should be statue in thy stead.

I’ll use thee kindly for thy mistress’ sake

That us’d me so; or else, by Jove I vow,

I should have scratch’d out your unseeing eyes,