Classic Poem

moth: If she be made of white and red,
Her faults will ne'er be known;
For blushing cheeks by faults are bred
And fears by pale white shown.
Then if she fear, or be to blame,
By this you shall not know;
For still her cheeks possess the same
Which native she doth owe.

A dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason of white and red.