I fancy you’re something of an olive,
And, though those branches mayst be by a dove
Bourne, there is none superior to thee
And none higher, though thou be from a tree.
Much of that color is your complexion
Naturally, with tanning’s neglection.
Voluptuous, you’re nicely pump and round,
Though not as most portly fellows I’ve found.
You’ve no need of envy; should you be green,
It’s only because there’s much you’ve not seen.
It’s well you’re not black; it’s such a sweet taste.
Green bitterness prevents meaningless haste.
You must be unpitted [you have a heart.]
An onion you’d be, knew I where to start.