To yeeld to those I cannot but disdaine,
Whose face doth but entangle foolish hearts;
It is the beautie of the better parts,
With which I mind my fancies for to chaine.
Those that haue nought wherewith mens minds to gaine,
But onely curled lockes and wanton lookes,
Are but like fleeting baites that haue no hookes,
Which may well take, but cannot well retaine:
He that began to yeeld to th'outward grace,
And then the treasures of the mind doth proue:
He, who as 'twere was with the maske in loue,
What doth he thinke when as he sees the face?
No doubt being lim'd by th'outward colours so,
That inward worth would neuer let him go.