THOMAS LODGE

loo. Rosaline

T IKE to the clear in highest sphere

Where all imperial glory shines, Of selfsame colour is her hair Whether unfolded or in twines :

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,

Resembling heaven by every wink ; The gods do fear whenas they glow, And I do tremble when I think

Heigh ho, would she were mine-l

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud

That beautifies Aurora's face, Or like the silver crimson shroud

That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace.

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline ! Her lips are like two budded roses

Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh, Within whose bounds she balm encloses

Apt to entice a deity :

Heigh ho, would she were mine !

Her neck like to a stately tower

Where Love himself imprison'd 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 !

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