Rosalynd

Like to the clear in highest sphere Where all imperial glory shines: Of selfsame color is her hair, Whether unfolded, or in twines: Heigh-ho, fair Rosalynd! Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, Refining heaven by every wink; The gods do fear whenas they glow, And I do tremble when I think Heigh-ho, would she were mine! Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud That beautifies Aurora’s face, Or like the silver-crimson shroud That Phœbus’ smiling looks doth grace: Heigh-ho, fair Rosalynd! Her lips are like two budded roses Whom ranks of lilies neighbor nigh, Within which bounds she balm encloses Apt to entice a deity: Heigh-ho, would she were mine! Her neck, like to a stately tower Where Love himself emprisoned lies To watch for glances every hour From her divine and sacred eyes: Heigh-ho, fair Rosalynd! Her paps are centres of delight, Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame, Where Nature moulds the dew of light To feed perfection with the same: Heigh-ho, would she were mine! With orient pearl, with ruby red, With marble white, with sapphire blue, Her body every way is fed, Yet soft to touch and sweet in view: Heigh-ho, fair Rosalynd! Nature herself her shape admires; The gods are wounded in her sight; And Love forsakes his heavenly fires And at her eyes his brand doth light: Heigh-ho, would she were mine! Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan The absence of fair Rosalynd, Since for a fair there ’s fairer none, Nor for her virtues so divine: Heigh-ho, fair Rosalynd! Heigh-ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!