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And thy snowy bosom stone.

Yet for all that, in thy coyness,

And thy fickle fits between,

Hope is there—at least the border

Of her garment may be seen.

Lures to faith are they, those glimpses,

And to faith in thee I hold;

Kindness cannot make it stronger,

Coldness cannot make it cold.

If it be that love is gentle,

In thy gentleness I see

Something holding out assurance

To the hope of winning thee.

If it be that in devotion

Lies a power hearts to move,

That which every day I show thee,

Helpful to my suit should prove.

Many a time thou must have noticed—

If to notice thou dost care—

How I go about on Monday

Dressed in all my Sunday wear.

Love's eyes love to look on brightness;

Love loves what is gaily drest;

Sunday, Monday, all I care is

Thou shouldst see me in my best.

No account I make of dances,

Or of strains that pleased thee so,

Keeping thee awake from midnight

Till the cocks began to crow;

Or of how I roundly swore it

That there's none so fair as thou;

True it is, but as I said it,