I. br Strive not, vain lover, to be fine; br Thy silk's the silk-worm's, and not thine: br You lessen to a fly your mistriss' thought, br To think it may be in a cobweb caught. br What, though her thin transparent lawn br Thy heart in a strong net hath drawn: br Not all the arms the god of fire ere made br Can the soft bulwarks of nak'd love invade. br br II. br Be truly fine, then, and yourself dress br In her fair soul's immac'late glass. br Then by reflection you may have the bliss br Perhaps to see what a true fineness is; br When all your gawderies will fit br Those only that are poor in wit. br She that a clinquant outside doth adore, br Dotes on a gilded statue and no more.