_From_ “_La Diana de Monte-Mayor_,” _in Spanish_: _where Sireno_, _a
shepherd_, _whose mistress Diana had utterly forsaken him_, _pulling out
a little of her hair_, _wrapped about with green silk_, _to the hair he
thus bewailed himself_.
WHAT changes here, O hair,
I see, since I saw you!
How ill fits you this green to wear,
For hope, the colour due!
Indeed, I well did hope,
Though hope were mixed with fear,
No other shepherd should have scope
Once to approach this hair.
Ah hair! how many days
My Dian made me show,
With thousand pretty childish plays,
If I ware you or no:
Alas, how oft with tears,—
O tears of guileful breast!—
She seeméd full of jealous fears,
Whereat I did but jest.
Tell me, O hair of gold,
If I then faulty be,
That trust those killing eyes I would,
Since they did warrant me?
Have you not seen her mood,
What streams of tears she spent,
’Till that I sware my faith so stood,
As her words had it bent?
Who hath such beauty seen
In one that changeth so?
Or where one’s love so constant been,
Who ever saw such woe?
Ah, hair! are you not grieved
To come from whence you be,
Seeing how once you saw I lived,
To see me as you see?
On sandy bank of late,
I saw this woman sit;
Where, “Sooner die than change my state,”
She with her finger writ:
Thus my belief was staid,
Behold Love’s mighty hand
On things were by a woman said,
And written in the sand.
_The same Sireno in_ “_Monte-Mayor_,” _holding his mistress’s glass
before her_, _and looking upon her while she viewed herself_, _thus
sang_:—
Of this high grace, with bliss conjoined,
No farther debt on me is laid,
Since that in self-same metal coined,
Sweet lady, you remain well paid;
For if my place give me great pleasure,
Having before my nature’s treasure,
In face and eyes unmatchéd being,
You have the same in my hands, seeing
What in your face mine eyes do measure.
Nor think the match unevenly made,
That of those beams in you do tarry,
The glass to you but gives a shade,
To me mine eyes the true shape carry;
For such a thought most highly prized,
Which ever hath Love’s yoke despised,
Better than one captived perceiveth,
Though he the lively form receiveth,
The other sees it but disguised.