1 Give place, you ladies, and begone,
Boast not yourselves at all,
For here at hand approacheth one
Whose face will stain you all.
2 The virtue of her lively looks
Excels the precious stone;
I wish to have none other books
To read or look upon.
3 In each of her two crystal eyes
Smileth a naked boy;
It would you all in heart suffice
To see that lamp of joy.
4 I think Nature hath lost the mould
Where she her shape did take;
Or else I doubt if Nature could
So fair a creature make.
5 She may be well compared
Unto the phoenix kind,
Whose like was never seen nor heard,
That any man can find.
6 In life she is Diana chaste,
In truth Penelope;
In word, and eke in deed, steadfast;
What will you more we say?
7 If all the world were sought so far,
Who could find such a wight?
Her beauty twinkleth like a star
Within the frosty night.
8 Her rosial colour comes and goes
"With such a comely grace,
More ruddier, too, than doth the rose,
Within her lively face."
9 At Bacchus' feast none shall her meet,
Nor at no wanton play,
Nor gazing in an open street,
Nor gadding, as astray.
10 The modest mirth that she doth use,
Is mix'd with shamefastness;
All vice she doth wholly refuse,
And hateth idleness.
11 O Lord, it is a world to see
How virtue can repair,
And deck in her such honesty,
Whom Nature made so fair.
12 Truly she doth as far exceed
Our women now-a-days,
As doth the gilliflower a wreed,
And more a thousand ways.
13 How might I do to get a graff
Of this unspotted tree?
For all the rest are plain but chaff
Which seem good corn to be.
14 This gift alone I shall her give,
When death doth what he can:
Her honest fame shall ever live
Within the mouth of man.
THAT ALL THINGS SOMETIME FIND EASE OF THEIR PAIN,
SAVE ONLY THE LOVER.
1 I see there is no sort
Of things that live in grief,
Which at sometime may not resort
Where as they have relief.
2 The stricken deer by kind
Of death that stands in awe,
For his recure an herb can find
The arrow to withdraw.
3 The chased deer hath soil
To cool him in his heat;
The ass, after his weary toil.
In stable is up set.
4 The coney hath its cave,
The little bird his nest,
From heat and cold themselves to save
At all times as they list.
5 The owl, with feeble sight,
Lies lurking in the leaves,
The sparrow in the frosty night
May shroud her in the eaves.
6 But woe to me, alas!
In sun nor yet in shade,
I cannot find a resting-place,
My burden to unlade.
7 But day by day still bears
The burden on my back,
With weeping eyes and wat'ry tears,
To hold my hope aback.
8 All things I see have place
Wherein they bow or bend,
Save this, alas! my woful case,
Which nowhere findeth end.