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! THE SOLITARY SHEPHERD’S SONG 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. ANONYMOUS I SAW MY LADY WEEP 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. Sorrow was there made fair, And Passion, wise; Tears, a delightful thing; Silence, beyond all speech, a wisdom rare: She made her sighs to sing, And all things with so sweet a sadness move As made my heart at once both grieve and love. O fairer than aught else The world can show, leave off in time to grieve! Enough, enough: your joyful look excels: Tears kill the heart, believe. O strive not to be excellent in woe, Which only breeds your beauty’s overthrow. GEORGE PEELE 1558(?)–1597 FAREWELL TO ARMS HIS golden locks time hath to silver turned; O time too swift! O swiftness never ceasing! His youth ’gainst age, and age at time, hath spurned, But spurned in vain; youth waneth by increasing: Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen; Duty, faith, love, are roots and ever green.