When I compare my frame to other men:
I weep, and mirror's glass weeps for me too,
By height it seems their taller shrinks me when-
By reach do they deny me greater view,
My hair's too barest 'neath their strands of lush;
Of thickly wool by substanced strength unknown;
How happy must they smile in each a brush
And pleasure's reep by winds that have them blown.
They boast their skin and shape, by right they're art,
Which have me think of art that I am fond:
A lover which attends my mirror's heart;
As she since loves, with love's devoutly bond:
As I recall the loveliness she sends
I frown to trade for all their beauty lends!