Yet thou, the flower of beauty, blessed born,
Hast pretty looks, but all attir'd in scorn.

Had I the power to weep sweet Mirrha's tears,
Or by my tears to pierce repining ears:
Hadst thou the heart to smile at my complaint,
To scorn the woes that doth my heart attaint,
I then could bear the burthen of my grief:
But not my tears, but truth with thee prevails,
And seeming sour thy sorrows thee assails:
Yet small relief:

For if thou wilt, thou art of marble hard;

And if thou please, my suit shall soon be heard.

CHARACTERS GRAVEN ON A BEECH TREE.

From the same.

FIRST shall the heavens want starry light;

The seas be robbed of their waves:

The day want sun, and sun want bright,

The night want shade, the dead men graves.
The April flowers, and leaves, and tree,
Before I false my faith to thee.

First shall the top of highest hills,
By humble plains be overpride,
And poets scorn the Muse's quills,
And fish forsake the water glide:

And Iris lose her colour'd weed,
Before I fail thee at thy need.

First direful Hate shall turn to Peace,

And Love relent in deep disdain,

And Death his fatal stroke shall cease,

And Envy pity every pain,

And Pleasure mourn, and Sorrow smile,
Before I talk of any guile.

First Time shall stay his stayless race,
And Winter bless his brows with corn,
And snow bemoisten Julia's face,

And Winter spring and Summer mourn,
Before my pen, by help of Fame,
Cease to recite thy sacred name.

ROSALIND'S DESCRIPTION.

From the same.

LIKE to the clear in highest sphere,

Where all imperial glory shines,

Of self-same colours is her hair,

Whether unfolded or in twines:

Heigh ho, fair Rosalind.

Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Resembling heaven by every wink;
The Gods do fear when as 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 Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace:

Heigh ho, fair Rosalind!

Her eyes are like to budded roses,

Whom ranks of lillies neighbour nigh,

Within which bounds she balm incloses,

Apt to entice a Deity.

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck is like a stately tower,
Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every hour,
From her divine and sacred eyes;

Heigh ho, for Rosalind.

Her

paps are centers of delight,

Her breasts are robes 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 in touch, and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair Rosalind!

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 Rosalind,

Since for a fair there is a fairer none,

Nor for her virtues so divine;

Heigh ho, fair Rosalind;

Heigh ho, my heart, would God that she were mine!

Periit quia deperibat.