If, when the story of my love is old,
This book should live and lover's leisure feed,
Fair charactered, for bluest eye to read,—
And richly bound, for whitest hand to hold,—
O limn me then this lovely head in gold,
And, limner, the soft lips and lashes heed,
And set her in the midst, my love indeed,
The sweet eyes tender, and the broad brow cold.
And never let thy colours think to cast
A brighter splendour on her beauties past,
Or venture to disguise a fancied flaw;
Let not thy painting falsify my rhyme,
But perfect keep the mould for after time,
And let the whole world see her as I saw.