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THE MORE, THE MERRIER.

What sense of love, should it lie to uniformity
If amorous choice desires a sense of similarity
That all beauty fit sad unblemished conformity
So all love is lost to a face of poor familiarity

I am for choice of soft and unsweetened mould
With no definition, of perfection’s disaffection
What care I for beauty, which grips vanity's hold
I rather care for choice from a varied selection

Love sees no uniform or soldier’s dressed parade
For, a heart is to the choice of an eye’s dictation
Should I love you, it is not for any beauty played
But because I feel the move of you in adoration

Sad is he, who makes choice of a mould’s request
And glad, I love the more, the merrier, who are left

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