Fair Is My Love -

by Robert Greene

Robert Greene

Fair is my Love, for April in her face;

Her lovely breasts September claims his part;

And lordly J u ly in her eyes takes place;

But cold December dwelleth in her heart:

Blest be the months that sets my thoughts on fire!

Accurst that month that hind'reth my desire!

Like Phoebus' fire, so sparkles both her eyes;

As air perfumed with amber is her breath;

Like swelling waves her lovely teats do rise;

As earth her heart, cold, dateth me to death:

Ay me, poor man, that on the earth do live,

When unkind earth death and despair doth give!

In pomp sits mercy seated in her face;

Love 'twixt her breasts his trophies doth imprint;

Here eyes shines favour, courtesy, and grace;

But touch her heart, ah, that is framed of flint!

That 'fore my harvest in the grass bears grain,

The rock will wear, washed with a winter's rain.

Last updated September 24, 2017