Phoebe's flockes

White as wool,

Yet were Phoebe's lockes more whiter.

Phoebe's eyes,

Douelike mild,

Douelike eyes, both mild and cruel.

Montan sweares,

In your lampes

He will die for to delight her.

Phoebe, yeeld,

Or I die:

Shall true hearts be fancie's fuel?

SONNETTO.

BY ROSADER..

Of all chast birdes the Phoenix doth excell,
Of all strong beastes the Lyon beares the bell,
Of all sweet flowers the Rose doth sweetest smel,
Of all faire maydes my Rosalynd is fairest.

Of all pure metals gold is onely purest,
Of all high trees the Pine hath highest crest,
Of all soft sweets, I like my mistriss brest,

Of all chast thoughts my mistris thoughts are rarest.

Of all proud birds the Eagle pleaseth Ioue,
Of pretie fowles kind Venus likes the Doue,
Of trees Minerua doth the Oliue loue,

Of all sweet nimphs I honour Rosalynd.

Of all her gifts her wisedome pleaseth most,
Of all her graces vertue she doth boast,
For all these gifts my life and ioy is lost,
If Rosalynde proue cruell and vnkind.

ROSALYNDE'S DESCRIPTION.

LIKE to the cleere in highest spheare,
Where all imperiall glorie shines,
Of selfe-same colour is her haire,
Whether vnfolded or in twines:
Heigh-ho, faire Rosalynde.

Her eyes are saphires set in snow,
Refining heauen by euery wincke:
The gods do feare when as they glow,
And I doo tremble when I thinke.

Heigh-ho, would she were mine.

Her cheekes are lyke the blushing clowde
That bewtifies Auroraes face,

Or lyke the siluer crimsin shrowde

That Phoebus' smiling lookes doth grace:

Heigh-ho, faire Rosalynd.

Her lippes are like two budded roses Whome ranckes of lillies neighbour nie, Within which bounds she balme incloses, Apt to intice a Deitie:

Heigh-ho, would she were mine.

Her necke like to a stately tower,
Where Loue himselfe imprisoned lies
To watch for glaunces euery houre,
From her deuine and sacred eyes,
Heigh-ho, faire Rosalynd.

Her pappes are centers of delight,
Her pappes are orbes of heauenly frame,
Where Nature molds the deaw of light,
To feed perfection with the same:

Heigh-ho, would she were mine.

With orient pearle, with rubie red,
With marble white, with saphire blew,
Her body euery way is fed,

Yet soft in touch; and sweet in view :
Heigh-ho, faire Rosalynde.

Nature her selfe her shape admires,
The gods are wounded in her sight,
And Loue forsakes his heauenly fires,
And at her eyes his brand doth light:

Heigh-ho, would she were mine.

Then muse not, nymphes, though I bemone

The absense of faire Rosalynde,

Since for her faire there is fairer none,

Nor for her vertues so deuine.

Heigh-ho, faire Rosalynde.

Heigh-ho, my heart, would God that she were mine. Periit, quia deperibat.

ROSADER'S SONNET.

IN Sorrowes cell I layd me downe to sleepe,
But waking woes were iealous of mine eyes,
They made them watch, and bend themselues to
weepe,

But weeping teares their want could not suffice:

Yet since for her they wept who guides my heart,
They weeping smile, and triumph in their smart.

Of these my teares a fountaine fiercely springs,
Where Venus baynes her selfe incenst with loue,
Where Cupid bowseth his faire feathred wings:
But I behold what paines I must approue.

Care drinkes it drie: but when on her I thinke,
Loue makes me weepe it full vnto the brinke.