Sonnet II - Of thee, kind boy, I ask no red and white,

Of thee, kind boy, I ask no red and white,

To make up my delight;

No odd becoming graces,

Black eyes, or little know-not-whats in faces;

Make me but mad enough, give me good store

Of love for her I court;

I ask no more,

'Tis love in love that makes the sport.

There's no such thing as what we beauty call,

It is mere cozenage all;

For though some, long ago,

Liked certain colors mingled so and so,

That doth not tie me now from choosing new;

If I fancy take

To black and blue,

That fancy doth it beauty make.

'Tis not the meat, but 'tis the appetite

Makes eating a delight;

And if I like one dish

More than another, that a pheasant is;

What in our watches, that in us is found,

So to the height and nick

We up be wound,

No matter by what hand or trick.