Classic Poem

T HERE'S a maid who pines for me,
(Doth your envy stir?)
Fairer than a swan is she,
Naught can rival her.

Silver, lilies, privet, snow,
All must yield their pride.
(Now your jealous thoughts, I know,
Tend to suicide.)

She by whom my heart is swayed
(Still your angry fright:)
Is a black but comely maid
Darker than the night.

Ant or cricket, pitch, or crow,
These are not so black;
You'll consent to live, I know.
Put that halter back!