My suitor has not one foul outward trait.
Pearls far less white than his white teeth.
If stone be strong, why then he’s cut from slate;
If hairs be grass, he grows the softest heath.
I have seen people with brown, green, and blue, 
Yet never such a prism in mortal eyes;
He carries himself as a hero would do—
A figure from myth who walks Ancient Greek skies.
I loath to hear him boast, yet I know well
That there is not much fiction to his claims:
When they about his brave achievements tell,
A crowd of disciples stand to praise his name:
Yet I think him all the more a fool
To be kind to me, but to all the rest cruel.