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!