LIKE to the clear in highest sphere Where all imperial glory shines, Of selfsame colour is her hair Whether unfolded, or in twines: Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, Resembling 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 Rosaline! Her lips are like two budded roses Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh, Within which bounds she balm encloses Apt to entice a deity: Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Her neck is like a stately tower Where Love himself imprisoned lies, To watch for glances every hour From her divine and sacred eyes: Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! 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 in touch and sweet in view: Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! 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 Rosaline, Since for a fair there’s fairer none, Nor for her virtues so divine: Heigh ho, fair Rosaline; Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
O SHADY vale, O fair enriched meads, O sacred woods, sweet fields, and rising mountains; O painted flowers, green herbs where Flora treads, Refreshed by wanton winds and watery fountains!
O all ye winged choristers of wood, That perched aloft, your former pains report; And straight again recount with pleasant mood Your present joys in sweet and seemly sort!
O all you creatures whosoever thrive On mother earth, in seas, by air, by fire; More blest are you than I here under sun! Love dies in me, whenas he doth revive In you; I perish under Beauty’s ire, Where after storms, winds, frosts, your life is won.
I SAW my Lady weep, And Sorrow proud to be advanced so In those fair eyes where all perfections keep. Her face was full of woe, But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.