To Dianeme
Robert Herrick, 1648

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes
     Which starlike sparkle in their skies;
     Nor be you proud, that you can see
     All hearts your captives; yours yet free:
     Be you not proud of that rich hair
     Which wantons with the lovesick air;
     Whenas that ruby which you wear,
     Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,
     Will last to be a precious stone,
     When all your world of beauty's gone.