I.

Nay but you, who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress?

Holds earth aught---speak truth---above her?

Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, And this last fairest tress of all, So fair, see, ere I let it fall?

II.

Because, you spend your lives in praising;

To praise, you search the wide world over:

Then why not witness, calmly gazing, If earth holds aught---speak truth---above her?

Above this tress, and this, I touch But cannot praise, I love so much!