Indeed, thou art the fairest of all beholden; yea, Even than
thyself thou'rt fairer, since yesterday was done.
Were beauty but allotted, to every one his due, One-fifth of it
were Joseph's or but a part of one,
And all the rest were surely thine own and only thine; May all
men be thy ransom, yea, every mother's son!
When he heard this, his heart inclined to her and the hands of
love sported with him: so he winked to her in answer and
repeated the following verses:
Over the rose of the cheek, the thorns of the eyelashes rise; So
who shall adventure himself to gather the flowery prize?
Lift not your hands to the rose, for long have the lashes waged
war And poured on us battle, because we lifted to it-ward
our eyes.
Tell her the tyrant who plays and yet is temptation itself,
(Though still more seductive she'd be, if she dealt but in
loyaller wise),
I see that, for beauty like thine, exposure's the surest of
guards, For the veiling thy face but augments its seductions
and adds to our sighs;
Like the sun, on whose visage undimmed the eye still refuses to
look, And yet we may gaze at our ease, when the thinnest of
clouds o'er it lies.
The honey's protected, forsooth, by the sting of the bees of the
hive: So question the guards of the camp why they stay us in
this our emprise.
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