Classic Poem

I know as well as you she is not fair,
Nor hath she sparkling eyes, or curled hair;
Nor can she brag of virtue or of truth,
Or anything about her, save her youth.
She is woman too, and to no end
I know, I verses write and letters send;
And nought I do can to compassion move her;
All this I know, yet cannot choose but love her.
Yet am not blind, as you and others be,
Who think and swear they little Cupid see
Play in their mistress' eyes, and that there dwell
Roses on cheeks, and that her breasts excel
The whitest snow, as if that love were built
On fading red and white, the body's quilt;
And that I cannot love unless I tell
Wherein or on what part my love doth dwell.
Vain heretics you be, for I love more
Than ever any did that told wherefore;
Then trouble me no more, nor tell me why:
'Tis, because she is she, and I am I.