I do not love thee for that fair br Rich fan of thy most curious hair; br Though the wires thereof be drawn br Finer than threads of lawn, br And are softer than the leaves br On which the subtle spider weaves. br br I do not love thee for those flowers br Growing on thy cheeks, love's bowers; br Though such cunning them hath spread, br None can paint them white and red: br Love's golden arrows thence are shot, br Yet for them I love thee not. br br I do not love thee for those soft br Red coral lips I've kissed so oft, br Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard br To speech whence music still is heard; br Though from those lips a kiss being taken br Mighty tyrants melt, and death awaken. br br I do not love thee, O my fairest, br For that richest, for that rarest br Silver pillar, which stands under br Thy sound head, that globe of wonder; br Though that neck be whiter far br Than towers of polished ivory are.