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Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a women’s fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care ‘Cause another’s rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meds in May, If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be? Shall my silly heart be pined ‘Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well-disposed nature Joined with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtledove, or pelican, If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be? Shall a woman’s virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or her well-deservings known, Make me quiet forger my own? Be she with that goodness blest Which may gain her name of best, If she not so to me, What care I how good she be? ‘Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool, and die? She that bears a noble mind, If not outward helps she find, Thinks what with them he would do That without them dares her woo: And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be? Great or good, or kind or fair, I will ne’er the more despair; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve: If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go; For if she not for me, What care I for whom she be? -{-{-@ [George Wither]