Pen's Nest

Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol rise,
To laud him blindly smacks of sophistry
And I Will trust the honour of mine eyes.
A faultless form was ne'er my predilection,
Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,
Rather I sing the praise of imperfection
And on his flaws is my invention spent.
The wicked sun his pallid skin doth speckle
The hairs below match not his raven head;
Yet will I quest to kiss each pretty freckle,
Declining dye to rest my lips in red.
Then will I swear beauty perforce is black,
And all they dull that his complexion lack.