At last so faire a ladie did I spie,
That thinking yet on her I burn and quake;
On hearts and flowres she walked pensively
Milde, but yet love she proudly did forsake;
White seem’d her robes, yet woven so they were
As snow and golde together had beene wrought;
Above the waste a darke cloude shrouded her,
A stinging serpent by the heele her caught;
Wherewith she languish’d as the gathered flowre;
And, well assured, she mounted up to ioy.
Alas, on earth no nothing doth endure
But bitter griefe and sorrowful annoy;
Which make this life wretched and miserable,
Tossed with stormes of fortune variable.